Every Rose has its Thorn
by SheyRicci
Summary: Dean walked away from stealing a book from its spiritual keeper, but yeah, the coffee table and the rosebushes...
1. Chapter 1

Really? He'd ended up here, how?

Okay sure, were making their way home, no hurry to get there but still, he wanted to get there sometime, you know, this week! But no, oh no, no, he'd been cursed with a headache. And despite cloudy skies, the hazy glare had made it worse. Dark sunglasses and six aspirin hadn't helped it to abate and the result had been he'd allowed Sam to drive. Ha!

Big mistake. Can you say 'you're a dumb ass Dean?'

And why was that a mistake? Well, here he was, sipping coffee flavored water in a one-room, six-booth diner in, of all places, _Godforsaken Wyoming_ , with the local-yokels eying him as though they had need to…..to…hell, he didn't want to ponder what they thought they might have 'need to do'.

"I'm gonna short-sheet his bed." he muttered into his murky, lukewarm, sorry excuse for, coffee. "Turn the hot water off when he's in the shower." usually, he was much more diabolical, but he was just too tired to come up with new and original big brother torture techniques for he-who-took-unauthorized-detours.

They'd been driving home from a hunt-gone-wrong in a no-name town in Nebraska whenDean, sore and tired and in pain, had thought hey, why not share the driving? Right? Wrong, because once Sam had gotten behind the wheel, he'd gleefully driven in totally the wrong direction – west instead of south – on purpose, for a reason. That purposeful reason being he'd gotten a text from 'someone' that a book he'd been looking for could be found...well, somewhere around 'here'.

"Refill, hon?"

"No thanks." Dean waved the gum-chewing, bee-hived, blue eye shadowed, red lipsticked, heavily rouged, cat-eyed glasses wearing waitress with huge bright lime-green dangling earrings off. "I'm good." he resisted the urge to shove the mug away and rub his temples, lest he risk offending her. What was labeled coffee in this hick joint was not agreeing with him.

Seriously, had Cas plucked him from his timeline and plunked him down in an alternate reality? Because surely, he'd landed in the middle of an 'Alice' episode, for his waitress was none other than Flo! No, not kidding. Her name tag said so. He couldn't help but twist around and look to see if Mel was manning the grill. No, wait, if that were true, he'd be in Phoenix, not…not wherever the hell he was in _Wyoming_.

"I say, you look plumb worn out." the coffee pot plopped down on the table, a chair scraped along the floor and she joined him at his booth. "You don't look like a skier." she propped her chin in her hand. "Or a hunter. You like to fish?"

"Just passing through." he gave her a tired grin. "Back roads road trip." how the hell did her earlobes support the weight of those gaudy, plastic earrings anyway? And where had that chair come from? There were no tables in the diner.

"Huh." she leaned forward to peer into his mug, then nudged the food left on his plate with a long, pointy fingernail. "You didn't like the food?" she shimmied his plate. "That's some good meat loaf. Made fresh this morning."

This? That? Good? Fresh?

"Don't feel well, do ya?" she nodded. "And nothing tastes good, huh?" she tsked-tsked, shaking her head. Dean watched her hair warily, waiting for it to land with a swish of air either in the coffee pot or on his plate. "You just sit right there, I got something for what ails you."

Dean opened his mouth to protest, to object, to refuse but yeah, he was too tired to battle she who 'was straight off the screen of Hairspray'.

***000***

Sam sat in the driver's seat of his brother's beloved car, thumbs tapping in irritation on the field glasses through which he watched the comings and goings of the small book store across the parking lot. Or rather, he watched the movements of the little ole man visible through the stores big front window.

Seriously, did the store not have a closing hour? Did the man ever intend to go home? Sam paused in his rap-a-tap-tap to look at his watch; 7:30. He huffed in aggravation. He'd left Dean at the diner over two hours ago and was sure he would be strangled upon his return to collect him.

Okay, sure, he supposed he could have gone into the book store and simply asked for the book, and had it actually been presented, paid for it and left. But his informant had informed him the book probably wasn't for sale and if he just wandered in and asked about it, it might well disappear and his search would start all over again. And Sam had neither the time nor the patience to begin again.

Taking a deep breath to gain control of his rising ire, he began an intense survey of the building which housed the bookstore. Oh yeah, um-hum. Yup, right there, those. Sam recognized several cleverly designs painted into pictures and designs on the building that to anyone else were meaningless decoration, but to him, were symbols and sigils; on the building façade as well as the door, the window sill, even the numbers of the address.

"Dammit."

Well okay, those symbols were going to require further research because he didn't know exactly what they were for or what they did but he bet his entire kitty they were designed to protect and prohibit the book he was after from being 'unlawfully and unknowingly' removed from the store.

He was too far away to take decent pictures, so he picked up pad and pencil and balancing the pad on one knee, began to draw. He had to use the field glasses to see the symbols and that required keeping one hand occupied, so at best, his drawings were shaking and juvenile.

"Shit."

BLEEPbeepBLEEPbeepBLEEPbeep.

"Fuck!" he fairly jumped out of his skin at the repeated ear-splitting shriek that bounced off the windows of the Impala.

BLEEPbeepBLEEPbeepBLEEPbeep.

"The fuck is that?" oh, the alarm on his watch. It was 8:00. "Jesus Christ!"

Time to return to the diner, collect Dean, and admit they had to delay their journey home until they could steal the book and why. It wasn't like it was a secret that Sam was researching the 'mark'. Dean would easily accept that explanation and ask no further questions. He didn't like what Sam was doing – well, as much as he knew anyway – but he didn't deny Sam's right to do it.

Shooting one last glare of annoyance at the figure visible through the store window, Sam started the car and pulled out. He drove around the small town before heading to the diner but found no motel or inn. Dean hadn't complained about or admitted to a headache but Sam knew him well enough to know he was suffering from some pain for another, if not exactly what and had shamelessly taken advantage of being allowed to drive while Dean slept to detour to Wyoming. They'd be home soon enough and Sam could tolerate Dean's attitude until then.

***000***

"Mmm…..mmm….ohmmm….mmmmm…..yeah, oh yeah. Good God! This is delicious." Dean murmured blissfully around a mouthful of a buttery, flaky, crispy fruit-filled yet not fruit, confection. Not exactly pie, for there wasn't really a crust but close enough. Sweet yet tart. "This is awesome! What is this?"

Flo patted his arm. "Pie, cobbler, crisp, crumble. It has many names. Not really one or the other. Drink your milk dear. Another piece?"

"Oh God, yes." he said, gleefully scrapping his plate and handing it up to her. "Bit bigger….yeah, yeah, that's good."

Sam entered the diner with trepidation, expecting a confrontation that would lead to a scene that would undoubtedly only end when they were asked to leave and Dean flounced out in high dudgeon to the parking lot to ensure no harm had come to his car while in the hands of Sam, who would be lucky if he weren't left to find his own way home.

He lingered in the doorway, astonished to find his brother happily sharing his booth with the waitress while eating some kind of dessert and drinking…milk? Alarm overrode astonishment and he sped across the floor, intent on rescuing his brother from the mean, mad manic who meant his sibling harm by plying him with drugged milk! So intent was he on his mission, he failed to watch where he was going. One minute, he was firmly on two steady feet, his brother in his sights, the next, he was sprawled on his back seeing stars rather than his brother, staring up at what could only be the ceiling.

"Oh my, here now!" with no urgency, Flo pushed to her feet. "See here young man! Watch where you are going! I just mopped that floor and here you are, tracking mud clear across it. Did you not see the fluorescent yellow wet floor signs? I say, I believe you kicked one right out of your way! What were you thinking?"

 _'That my brother was in danger, that someone or something meant him harm and I needed to help him - protect him.'_

"Sammy?" that was Dean's voice from a very far distance. "Protect me from what?" he looked all around the diner, searching for whatever had sent Sammy hurrying across the room in such a panic. He had silver rounds in his .45, a silver knife up his sleeve, a bottle of holy water in his pocket and of course, there was salt on the table, but nope, he saw nothing.

"Ow." Sam managed, once the room ceased spinning and the stars subsided to a tolerable brightness. _And what a brother he was. The son-of-a-bitch had yet to get up and come over to see if his little brother was ok!_

"Why you calling me names?" Dean groused. "What'd I do? Course you're okay."

"You break anything?" asked not Dean's voice. Sam blinked up and saw a grease stained white apron gone grey that apparently had the ability to speak, its voice gruff and accusatory. Yup, right there, under a big ole…guess that could be a nose…there….that was a mouth, right?

"Aah." Sam started to sit up. Three faces stared at him but no one offered him a hand. Ye Gods! What the hell was that? Lots of bright blue where eyes should be and red, aah lips, yes, lips and…those were earrings, right? Were they trying to take flight and were held back by distressed ear lobes? "Ow."

Dean sighed. "Ow what?" he wiped his mouth of crumbs, tossed his napkin onto the table and offered his brother his hand. "Up you go Bigfoot."

Well, least Dean had finally gotten up from the booth and come over to see him. Sam accepted the offer of a hand with his left and gathered his feet under his ass in preparation to stand. Nothing hurt until Dean pulled with his weight and Sam tried to stand on two feet. His cry of pain startled both himself and his stupefied brother, who instantly let go. Sam landed hard on his ass with a teeth-clattering thud.

"OW!" he howled. "Yow-OW-Yow!"

Dean sighed again and gave Flo a long-suffering roll of the eyes. "So, what'd you hurt this time?" he huffed tiredly to Sam.

"You're not gonna try and sue us, are ya?" the cook, Sam decided, asked suspiciously. "It was yer own fault ye fell." he looked anxiously at Dean. "It was!" cook insisted. "He wasn't watchin' where he's goin'."

Sam suppressed a giggle. Aah, that voice belonged to a man with a belt-over-lapping belly and none-too-clean apron whose speech clearly advertised his level of education – or lack of. And he'd thought those stains on that apron were a face! And that it could speak! Oooffff, had he hit his head?

"Yeah." Dean agreed, looking down in disproval at Sam who cradled his left hand against his side. "Really Sam? I mean, _really?_ Now? Here?"

"What?" Sam shot back sullenly. Well damn, his hand, his wrist, his arm, his elbow was really starting to throb. Kinda, come to think of it, it hurt like it had the last two times he'd broken a bone. "OW." he blinked at tears; tears of pain, of frustration, his own stupidity, his damn brother. _After all, this was all his fault!_

"Sorry? Say that again?" Dean was saying. "What's all my fault?"

Oh crap, had he said that out loud?

"How is you falling on your ass my fault?" Dean persisted. Flo patted his arm, frowning down at Sam for daring to upset her customer.

"You're drinking _milk_." Sam accused, then his brow furrowed and he paled. "Ow."

"And?" Dean pushed impatiently. "And so?" he waved his hand. "Ow what? What's ow-ing you this time?"

"Milk, Dean, milk! You!" his arm now cuddled protectively, his ankle flared up in revolt. "You never drink milk! Not even the milk left in the bowl when you finish your cereal." he winced, attempting to flex his ankle. Oooh…ow,ow,ow,ow…nope. Great! He should get his boot off. Get it off before it had to be cut off. Why ruin a perfectly good pair of boots? Well, only one boot, but what good would the other be without its mate? Oh, he was rambling. He should stop. Yeah Sam, stop.

"Is he….?" Flo made a motion with her hand, finger twirling in a circle in the direction of Sam's head. "Maybe? You know….?" she waggled her ridiculously painted-on eyebrows, causing Sam to scowl irritably and puff up in indignation.

"My fault." Dean nodded solemnly. "Babies wiggle a lot. All arms and legs kickin'. I dropped him on his head once." he paused, then admitted in a confidential whisper. "Couple times."

"Don't they though!" Flo exclaimed. "Why, right of the bath, they're slippery little buggers, don't you think? And lordy, but they flail all about when in a temper." she eyed Sam critically. "And I just bet he threw epic-throw-on-the-floor-kicked-my-feet-banged-my-head ones, didn't he?"

"He did!" Dean agreed eagerly. "God, but he could embarrass me! And whose bright idea was it babies need lotions and baby oil? I mean, come on! Once, we were taking a bath together and our Dad, he…."

"AAUGH!" Sam yelped. "VEGATABLES! He was eating VEGATABLES!" he burst out defensively. "You were eating rhubarb!" his eyes flashed, and his eyebrows became one. "Rhubarb Dean! Since when do you…..? I…..You don't willingly eat vegetables!"

"You could tell that from way over by the door?" Flo asked dubiously. "Really?"

"What?" Dean's eyes widened to comical proportions. "Dessert Sam, it's called dessert. It was strawberry." he gave Flo a lovey-dovey smile. "And it was delicious."

 _Did Dean not understand Sam seeing him drink milk and eat vegetables, no matter how deliciously or cleverly disguised, was tantamount to Sam thinking Dean was being tortured?_

"Tortured?" Dean repeated doubtfully. "If I hadn't seen you fall, I'd think you whacked your head." he huffed in exasperation. "No one is torturing me by forcing me to drink milk, you dingbat."

"Dingbat?" Sam shook his head. Really, he needed to stop this new habit of unknowingly speaking his thoughts out loud. "Why'm I a dingbat?"

"Come on, on your feet." Dean winked at Flo. "No harm done." he assured her and the anxious cook. "Sam? Come on, get up."

"Uh." he didn't move. "No."

Dean unconsciously mimicked Flo's stance, hands on hips, lips pursed in disproval. "Don't say you hurt yourself. Don't even." Dean said. "What this time? Your ass?"

"No." Sam stared at his right foot then at his left arm. "Uh."

"Do you need an ER?" Dean demanded exasperatingly. "Where's the nearest one?" he asked Flo. "He gets knocked around, knocked out and his head bounces off concrete walls, not a bump or lump, not even a headache but his delicate bones crack he falls off his own feet."

"He ain't broken." the cook insisted. "Looks all in one piece to me. Hospital bills ain't cheap."

"Relax Mel." Dean spoke absently, missing the cook's look of confusion over the name. "We leave here, you're not gonna hear from us again. We ain't gonna sue or ask you to pay anything."

"Rapid City." Flo announced. "We've a vet clinic just down the road though."

"I'm okay." Sam said unconvincingly. "Just…some ice? Maybe." _take him to a vet? Oh, he didn't think so. And he was sure she meant a vet for animals. And for what?_

"Old Doc Jacobs has a picture machine." Mel nodded encouragingly. "Won't charge you much."

 _A picture mach…what the hell? Just where the fuck were they? Now see here! I'm a human being! See? I've got opposable thumbs and if I could get off my numb ass, you'd see I don't have a tail!_

Dean sighed and squatted down in front of his accident/prone-to-injury brother. "Let me see." he held his hand out, waited a second than waggled his fingers impatiently. "Sam, come on."

When Sam didn't offer Dean his arm, Dean turned around, balanced on one knee, untied the laces on Sam's boot and pulled them loose but didn't remove the boot.

"I'll get you some ice to go and get you on your way." Mel said and toddled off.

"I'm not going to a vet's office." Sam argued. "Just….we'll find a hotel and hole up for a day or two. Once the swelling's down, and bumping around in the car won't hurt so much, we'll head home, okay?"

Dean stared at Sam. Former headache either forgotten or gone. Replaced by suspicion and doubt.

"Why are we here Sam?" he asked, tone no-nonsense. "The fuck did you go?"

"There's a book." Sam began, ducking his head under the 'glare of disapproval'. "And I thought I'd wait until the store closed and help myself to it." he accepted two bags of ice from Mel with a smile of thanks; one for his hand and the other for his foot. "But the owner hadn't left and I came back for you but you were eating vegetables and….."

"Dessert." Dean insisted. "Not vegetables, dessert."

"Why would you steal a book?" Flo demanded. "Have you ever heard of buying what you want? You know, paying for it?"

"Yes, but see, this book, it isn't for sale."

"Nothing I say is going to convince you to leave well enough alone, is it?" Dean sighed in defeat.

"The store is protected with war…" he paused, aware of Mel and Flo's avid interest. "You should see the place." he amended hastily. "I drew some of the…..uh….yeah, the architect. Get me wifi and I can do some research and we'll know what we're up against."

"You must really want this book." Flo commented, popping a bubble. "Offer cash. Everyone likes cash."

"So." Dean stood up, reaching for his wallet. "Where's your nearest motel?"

***000***

Dean paid the bill.  
Dean helped Sam to his feet.  
Dean accepted the numerous bags of ice Mel insisted they take.  
Dean helped his brother walk out to the car.  
Dean drove.  
Dean found a motel.  
Dean helped Sam into the room, off with his boots and into bed.  
Dean saw Sam settled comfortably with his foot elevated and packed in ice with the laptop on his lap.  
Sam did research.  
Dean left Sam behind and drove to the bookstore.  
Dean broke into the now dark store.  
Dean engaged in a fight with a little ole wizened man.  
Dean got his ass kicked then handed to him by the little ole wizened man.  
Dean somehow won possession of the book.  
Dean did what all citizens of Wyoming did when hurt and running from an ass-kicking 5' troll; he high-tailed it to the safety of South Dakota.  
Dean left Sam behind. In the motel. With his laptop and a possibly broken ankle.


	2. Chapter 2

WARNING: Sam is not in this chapter.

* * *

"Hey."

"No." _turn. Turn and slam the door. Slam the door and hide. Hide and forget you ever opened the door._

"Been awhile,"

"Mmmmm," _never would not be long enough._

"Good to see you," he paused, quirked an eyebrow, waited.

"Hmmmmm." _run, run now, run far, run fast, just run._

"Kinda warm out here." he hinted, quirked the second eyebrow and waited.

"MmmmHmmmmm." _go away._

"Just, uh, driving by, you know?" he waggled his usually irresistible eyebrows and waited.

"MmmmHmmm!" _and just how the bloody hell did you know where I lived?_

"Can I come in?" lowered lids and bitten bottom lip had never failed him before.

"MEEP?!" _not on your life._

He grinned; a sheepish, cocky smile meant to be disarming faltered into a wince and he swayed left, then right, then left before bracing his weight with an arm on either side of the exterior door frame.

Maggie felt faint and for once, she couldn't blame it on age or any of her many medications. No, the reason was right there, standing in her doorway. A man she'd hoped to never see again; a man, who once again, had found his way into her life. Huh, and just _how_ had he done that?

Humph!

Speaking of medication, she wondered if she had enough Ativan and Diazepam and Lorazepam in the cupboard to get through another visit from one dark and dangerous Mr. Dean Winchester. No, she decided, no she did not. Not nearly enough. What time was it? Could she call for a refill? Would the doctor authorize it over the phone? She didn't have time to make an appointment. She couldn't wait. She needed valium and whiskey….did they still make laudanum? Made from opium, wasn't it?

"…and hot." he finished. Oh-oh, she hadn't heard a word he'd said.

Resolving at that moment, to change both phone numbers, steal someone's identity and move to a remote island off the coast of say, Antarctica, she finally moved aside to allow him entrance into her home. A place she had never thought he would enter.

"Well?" she waved her hand through the open door. "You're letting all my a/c out." sure, sure, she could let him in through the front door and let herself right out the back door. Hop into her car and drive….no destination necessary, just drive. _Run, runaway. Run, run as fast as you can, he can't catch you..._

"Aah, right, yeah." still, he didn't move.

"What is it this time?" she crossed her arms over her chest, for the moment oblivious to the sting of the above average temperatures for 8:30 in the morning in remote South Dakota. "Stabbed again? Concussed?" she questioned disdainfully. _I'm going to have to tend you, aren't I?_ "What are you doing here?" she paused. "How did you even know where I lived?" yeah, how had he found her house? "You'd just best be on your way. I'm not taking care of you again." _pfft, who are you kidding Margaret, you know damned well you will._ "Not this time." _this time and every time hereafter._ And there would be more times.

"Eh?" he was light-headed and nauseated and nothing she was saying was making any sense. Must be the heat. Yeah, the heat. Sure, that was it. Couldn't be anything else, right? "What?"

"Just dropping by for a nip of tea?" she carried on. "Friendly visit, I'm sure." _I'm going to die. He'll be the death of me yet. I'm going to cock up my toes and die of fright or stress or violence, for it's for damn sure I won't live long enough to die of old age when HE keeps invading my life!_

Translation: she said one thing and meant the complete opposite.

"Uh, say what?"

"Or maybe you're shot." she continued sarcastically. "That'd be a new one." she paused. "For me anyway. But not you, I bet." she frowned, her face skewering into a disapproving scowl. "I've seen you, you know. I've seen the scars. You certainly aren't bashful about running around wearing only your unmentionables in front of me. Or do you do that with all the women you know? What about Jody? She still insists you're a law official, but I know better. Law official, my ass! You're a criminal and I know it. You'll not tell me different! What I don't know, is why she's so fond of you…..I mean, she's downright protective and I just don't get it. You can do no wrong! And why is that? Why you? Now, I love that woman like a daughter but for the life of me I don't understand how she just lets you run amuck with all those guns and weapons! You're a dangerous man. Dangerous I say!" she snapped her fingers in triumph over some thought that had just occurred to her. "That's it! Blackmail! You're blackmailing her! You've got something over her head. That's it! Or perhaps you saved her life once? Or maybe you've bewitched her, what with those green eyes and those freckles." _and that charm and that oozing male….male….well maleness._

"Are you…..saying I…seduced her?" his rough, pain-husky voice rang with astonishment. _"Sheriff Mills?!"_

 _Couldn't have said it better myself._ "Oh, not at all!" _absolutely._ "Why, I'm sure Jody wouldn't allow herself to be seduced by you." _what sane woman would be able to refuse? Or would want to._

"I…..aah….I, uh…."

"Where's Sam?" she went up on tiptoes to look over his shoulder at the car parked in her driveway. Odd, she ought to have heard the car pull up. Weird, she could see over his shoulder. Oh, that's why, he was all hunched over and supporting his weight against the door frame. Yup! Oh yeah, just driving by, her ass!

"He's in…" Dean began breathlessly.

"You can't leave him in the car." _sure you can, just crack a window_. "He's alright, isn't he?" _I cannot handle both of you in my home! I simply cannot._ "I guess no harm can come to him." _just, you know, the risk death by heat stroke._

"No…..he's not." Dean swayed some more, biting his lip. "Left him at….a motel…..in….in….." he swallowed hard, panting shallowly. Oh dear, this wasn't good. He couldn't breathe. Oh yeah, nope, not good at all. "He, uh…..his foot and…..the car….." yeah, little old Sammy should try driving with what Dean suspected were cracked ribs. God, he hated friggin' trolls.

 _Oh no you don't. Nope, not gonna happen. I won't allow it. . . . . I refuse to be swayed by…oh drat, was that sweat on your cheeks? Or tears? Damn you!_

"I see." _no, I don't! I'm nothing but a crazy old fool._ "Very well, come in." _shove him back and shut the door in his face. And lock it. Barricade it. Stick to your plan to run out the back. You can run faster than he can. You may be old and arthritic, but he's all hunched over, he's in pain and he can't breathe._ "You can rest for an hour or two before being on your way _._ " _I'm talking complete and utter bullshit. He'll stay as long as he needs to. In fact I insist he does, but I'll never tell him that._

He managed to stagger through the door and while she was closing it behind him – muttering about beloved daughter-in-laws – headed for the deceptive beacon of comfort; the sofa. Deceptive because it was evil, for despite his best efforts, it eluded him. He couldn't reach it. Because of the coffee table. That was in his way. And despite his growling and show of dominance, it failed to move. And it wouldn't let him pass. So he decided to show it who was boss and sat on it. And it laughed at him. Then broke beneath his weight. And unable to gain his balance, he was left sprawled on his back amid broken shards of glass and splintered wood.

Maggie stood by the closed front door and threw her hands up. _What had possessed her to ever let him in her house!?_ She stomped her foot in agitation. _She knew better!_

"You Did Not Just Do That." she fumed. "That was an antique." she stared in dismay at the shattered glass and broken wood. Well, that was going to take some time to clean up. "And you will find and buy me another just like it!" her head decided to throb.

 _I cannot do this. Not again. I simply cannot. I'm too old. I can't take care of him again. My blood pressure is too high. I'll have a heart attack. I'll pop a blood vessel. I'll throw a stroke. I'll throw my back out. I'll break a hip. I'll dial 911. I'll call Jody. I'll…._

 _I'll put water on for tea and clean sheets on the bed in the guest room._

She sighed. When her last son had left home, she and her husband had downsized to a comfortable rancher that lacked central air conditioning. Because she lived near Rapid City, South Dakota, it was very rare indeed for hot temperatures with high humidity resulting in a heat index with high dew points. So she had two window units; one in her bedroom and one in the dining room that kept her kitchen and living room cool. She kept the other rooms closed off, including the guest room. And that room would be quite warm indeed.

She sighed again. She had a house guest and she sure as hell wasn't giving up her room for his comfort, no matter what ailed him - and something did ail him. She heaved another sigh. Not a house guest, a patient. She may not yet know just what his problem was this time, but she was damn sure he was hurt somewhere. And oooohhhh, she just bet it wasn't anything simple like a broken toe she could just tape together and send him on his way.

Oh well, she shrugged, the situation could be worse. At least this time, he hadn't held a gun on her. Or shot at her. And she wasn't in a flea-bitten, roach-infested motel room that hadn't ever been properly cleaned from which they'd had to flee to avoid the police. And there was only one Winchester...

She frowned. Wasn't there?

"Damn." hugging her arms across her waist to secure her bathrobe, she opened the door and darted outside. Thankful she wore hard soled slippers, and praying the heat would keep her neighbors indoors, she toddled off the porch to peek into the car and confirm that Sam hadn't been left asleep or forgotten. "Oh, thank god!" relief flooded her. With only one Winchester under her roof, perhaps she could get through the day with only alcohol. No drugs required.

Yeah, right! Ha!

She scurried back to the house and shut the door. Whew! No on had seen her! Dean hadn't moved. No, that wasn't accurate. He was exactly where he had fallen but he was rolling and squirming and twitching without actually moving. Huh.

"Stay there. Right there!" she ordered needlessly, because, yeah, he wasn't even trying to get up. "And stop all that rolling and twitching about. You're grounding glass into my hardwood floors."

She wandered down the hall in search of a broom and dust pan. On her way, she opened the door to the guest room to allow cool air to trickle in. She detoured into her room to boot up her ancient desk top with tubed monitor computer, 'cause, yeah, she was going to have some first aid looking up and researching to do. She then headed for the kitchen and put her teapot on. Hot tea was definitely needed. Then she finally opened her cellar door to retrieve broom and dust plan.

"Well. There's a bright side." she decided. "At least I don't have to try and get him upstairs!"

***000***

Oh Good God Almighty He Was Not Comfortable.

Every time he moved or thought about moving, he crunched and his ears clinked. Any part of him currently touching the floor stung or burned from being poked by numerous sharp, pointy objects. OWowowowowowo-wow-owowowowo-OW. What a day to wear only his black t-shirt; the day already too hot for long-sleeves.

He entire body was tense, taut, so stiff his shoulders ached and his thighs cramped from the strain of trying to hold still and relieve the repeated poking's that pierced both his flimsy t-shirt and his tender skin. Every breath he took, every move he made…OW-wow-ow-ow-oh-OW-ow-ow-Wow.

"Shush up, you."

What the hell? What was that? A broom – yes, a broom – whopped him in the face, whisking his cheek and poking his ear.

"Chaos and violence." swish, bristles crossed his other cheek, forehead. "STAY STILL, I SAY!"

He blinked. What the fuck? Where the hell was he? And what the hell was going on? Was he being chased by a….a….a _broom_!? He was! He swatted at it, it swatted back. He tried to wrestle it down but met resistance. He tried to jerk it loose, but pain flared, erupting and stabbing with such force it stole his breath and left him seeing black dots that swirled and merged slowly into one large circle that completely enveloped his vision and left his ears ringing. His breath fled – again. Seriously, it really needed to quit doing that.

"Stop that! What are you doing? Here now, enough of that! Lay STILL I tell YOU!"

He did.

Not because on any overwhelming desire to obey, but because his chest was tight and it burned and it held his breath hostage. Oh, was it back then? Hey, now his lungs were missing. And without them, his arms and legs didn't know how to move or what to do, so they simply lay where he'd left them; sprawled akimbo amidst broken glass and broken, splintered wood.

Swish swish swish went the broom.

And it was a broom. He didn't need to actually see it to know it was a broom. And brooms meant witches! And no, he didn't want anyone in his face accusing him of profiling or being stereotypical or whatever.

Good god, he was hot! Why couldn't the broom be a wicker fan bringing him nice, much wanted cool air? He was hot! So hot. And in pain. Oh God, the pain! Boy, did he hurt. And…..and…..what was that? That was….was…..was that _wood_? Wood? Wood? Wood was used for fires. And it was hot, he was hot. Ohohohohohoho….oh! We – he – me gotta get outta this place! You sing it Eric Burdon!

Gulping and panting, tongue held between his teeth, he flailed and flopped, pain and panic blocking out rational thought. He had to roll to his knees, plant his palms on the floor and push up with herculean strength to gain his feet, and even then, he fell back to his elbows three times and once to his hip before actually managing to stand.

Gripped in a frantic frenzy, he failed to notice the new, sudden stinging in the heels of his hands, failed to feel or see the trickles of blood on his fingers. No, all his panicked mind was capable of deciphering was; a witch was chasing him with her broom to…to…to cook him and he needed to take immediate and quick flight!

So he did.

Well, immediate was accomplished. Quick? Not so much.

All he could hope for was he could hobble, hunched over with his arms crossed over his stomach - resembling a twisted, gnarled tree - faster than she could fly on that broom!

"HEY! Where are YOU going?" Maggie bellowed. "YOU THERE! YOU COME BACK HERE!"

He burst out the front door, Maggie on his heels wielding her broom as though she were clearing cobwebs from overhead. And if the neighbors happened to see mild mannered Maggie Mills chasing a man out of her house with a broom, threatening and hollering, well, it _was_ the hottest week in recorded history in Rapid City, South Dakota and the unbearable heat might certainly make people do out-of-the-ordinary – ah – things.

Dean hit the front porch, his car within his bleary, blurred sight and…..went head first over the railing into the bushes below; bushes that luckily cushioned his fall, preventing his head from striking the ground; bushes that were unfortunately, rosebushes.

"AACCKK!" Maggie shrieked, broom waving madly over her head as she hopped up and down. Boy, would her joints be aching tomorrow. Wasn't enough Ben-gay in the house. "MY POSIES!" she wailed. "MY BEATIFUL ROSES!" she whacked his boots. "MY HUSBAND PLANTED THOSE WITH HIS OWN TWO HANDS!" whack, whack. "AND HE COULDN'T GROW MOLD!" whack, whack, whack. "IF YOU HURT ONE THORN ON THOSE LOVELY BUSHES!" whack, whack, whack, whack. "OH, HOW COULD YOU?!"

"Mrs. Mills?"

Maggie froze, then nonchalantly turned the broom around and gently set the bristled end against her porch floor before turning to smile sunnily at her visitor. "Why, good morning Barry. Nice weather, is it not? Hot enough for you?" her teeth were gritted but she showed no outward discontent.

"Are you…..is everything all right?"

"Yes, yes of course it is." she continued to smile like an idiot. Like she had no idea two booted feet were sticking out of her prize (if only in her eyes) rosebushes. "Why do you ask?"

"I do believe there's a pair of boots sticking out of your rosebushes."

"Oh yes, those." she nodded, waving a dismissive hand. "Yes." she sniffed. "So, there is."

"And they appear to be attached to a pair of denim clad legs."

"Yes, yes." she continued to wave him off distractedly. How on earth was she _ever_ going to get him out of her hedges doing the least possible damage to her roses? Better to sacrifice some skin than risk irreparable damage to her petals and leafs, right? After all, skin grew back. Broken flower stems and stalks did not.

And really, _if_ there happened to be any scars, why they would be faint and small – _if_ there were any at all. They were merely thorns from rosebushes - their pointy points scratched, they didn't _actually_ puncture. She frowned, toes tapping. Did they? Hey, just how badly did rose thorns puncture human skin anyway?

"Do you require assistance?" Barry, her middle-aged, plump neighbor was asking politely. "May I be of help?"

Maggie scowled and threw her broom to the floor. "Dean?" she stomped her foot and clapped her hands. "Come out of those bushes right now." when Dean didn't miraculously and immediately pop out of her bushes, she threw an epic temper-tantrum that would have put a two-year old to shame. "Dean! Don't MAKE me COME IN there after YOU. You won't LIKE it if I do. Oh, I never! I swear you pull these stunts deliberately just to try my patience! COME OUT OF THERE THIS INSTANT!"

"Should I call the police?" Barry asked calmly. He eyed the boots that, no longer under attack from a broom wielding feisty senior citizen, were fluttering – almost like they were swimming. Huh, that was odd. Oh there, the bushes were rustling, moving and Barry waited patiently, but nope, no other body parts emerged.

"What?" Maggie held a hand to her chest. "The who? Oh no, no, that won't be necessary. He will come out of my bushes immediately or I will BOX HIS EARS!" her voice rose shrilly, then she moaned in dismay. "Oh, my lovely, lovely blooms!"

"Are you acquainted with the owner of those boots?" Barry asked, unperturbed by Maggie's recent outburst. He merely raised an eyebrow at the spectacle that was his neighbor; did no more than blink. In fact, he appeared quite non-pulsed that normally mild mannered Mrs. Margaret Mills had chased a young man out her front door and into her bushes with a broom.

 _Never seen him before in my life._ Maggie heaved a sigh, wavering. She could deny knowing him, but then, she'd called him by name. If she denied acquaintance, Barry would call the police and they would come and remove him from both her bushes and her home….well, her life. He would no longer be her problem. She brightened at the cheery thought then deflated just as quickly. Oh, that wouldn't do. It would likely remove Jody from her life as well and that was not something she was willing to risk.

There was no hope for it. Dean was not coming out of her beloved rosebushes without some prodding. She scooped up her broom and whacked him soundly across the back of his calves. She sniffed over the broken foliage and crushed petals, vowing revenge. "Dean. Winchester. You. Come. Out. Of. My. Bushes. Right. Now."

He mumbled something.  
Barry looked on.  
A crowd had gathered.  
A dog barked.  
Maggie dropped her broom, grabbed an ankle and pulled.  
A cop car pulled up.  
Then a rescue vehicle.  
Followed by a fire truck.  
By the time the hook-n-ladder pulled up, Maggie was halfway over the railing, tugging fruitlessly on the back of Dean's jeans, screeching about her bushes.

Incensed over the scene, and embarrassed in front of her neighbors, Maggie was in a fit. Oh, she could just bet what had happened. Someone had texted someone. The fire department was volunteer. The members tended to gather at the station and gossip. Having nothing better to do, they'd decided to take a drive and see what the hub-bub was over on Meryleville Street. The emergency vehicles hadn't come with sirens or lights. So, non-emergency, but they were out and not for a parade and people were nosy, erhm, curious and had followed them to their destination: her front yard. Why, she just bet the whole bloody town was on her sidewalk or driveway or lawn and if this went on much longer, someone would bring donuts and ask for lemonade.

She. Was. Going. To. Kill. Him.

"Oh! Do be careful!" Maggie fluttered about anxiously while four firemen attempted to extract Dean from her rosebushes. "Watch…watch it. Oh! Oh my! Take it easy! Not so hard! Oh, not like that! HEY! They're delicate, you know! Will they recover? Will they be okay? They aren't damaged too badly, are they?"

"Don't worry ma'am." one of the firemen said. He wasn't wearing any protective gear so perhaps he was distracted or the heat distorted his hearing or maybe he was trying not to laugh at her predicament. Whatever his problem, he apparently misunderstood her. "He's a hearty fellow. Some scratches. He'll be alright." he assured her.

"Not HIM!" Maggie gasped, aghast. "MY FLOWERS!" her palms held her cheeks and she paced nervously. "Who here has a green thumb? Anyone?" she stomped up, down, up. "He comes out of there dead, I'll kill him!" she muttered. "Show up at my door, hurt my flowers, cause a scene." stomp, stomp, stomp. "Embarrass me in front of everyone…..WHAT?" she roared, rounding on the police officer who was attempting to ask her questions. "Now?" she fumed. "Oh, do try and save that one! It's the only yellow…..oh and that one! It's my purple…see here now, don't worry about his pretty face. He can see perfectly well out of one eye."

"Mrs. Mills? If you would, please. Answer some questions."

 _Oh very well!_ Yes, she knew him; he was the drunken brother of her daughter-in-law; no, he hadn't harassed her; yes, he'd been invited; no, there was no need to arrest him or remove him from her property, just from her roses; yes, he'd be staying with her and had she a dog house, he'd sleep there.

"Paul?" another fireman beckoned. Dean was up and out of the bushes, lying limply on the porch floor on his back. He was breathing – barely – eyes open and focused but neither moving nor responding.

The two firemen conversed quietly, checking Dean's pupils and pulse, discussing the bruises and swelling on his stomach and torso and ribs, courtesy of an ass-kicking by a 5' troll, though they didn't know that. Maggie continued her porch-pacing tirade, muttering dire consequences to Sam for not keeping his brother on a leash!

Barry looked on.  
The crowd grew.  
The dog had made a friend.  
Someone took pictures.  
Nosy ole Myrtle whose back yard butted against Maggie's was asking who would like ice tea.

Oh…ooh…oh, that was the last straw!

"Jake? Hey, better call an ambulance." Paul called.

Maggie had paused in her stomping and was staring vacantly at her feet. Huh, she'd lost a slipper. She glanced around, nope, nowhere in sight Where had it gone? Oh, her door stood wide open! All her a/c was getting out! She went over and slammed it shut. Those window units were mighty expensive to run and…wait, what?

"Ambulance?" she repeated, stunned. "Ambu…..FOR WHAT?! A few measly scratches from rose THORNS?!"

"He's having trouble breathing ma'am." Paul, the fireman said gently. "He has some injuries that…"

 _Oh No! My table! All that glass! The splintered wood. I hit him with my broom! I chased him from my house! I sent him over a railing head first into rosebushes! I did him harm! I killed the boy! Oh, how will I tell Jody? How will I face Sam? SAM! OOhhhh…woooooeeeee….OOhhhhhh!_

She paused. She was in her nightgown, with curlers in her hair, minus a slipper. Her bathrobe had come undone. Her top dentures sat in a glass on the bathroom sink. She had no idea what had happened to her glasses. She was a sightly spectacle in front of everyone in town!

She fainted.

Just dropped like a stone, right there on her porch: In front of everyone; in her nightgown, with curlers in her hair, minus a slipper, with her robe gaping open and without her glasses or her teeth.

Thud.

She would never live this down. She would have to change churches. She would have to cancel her library membership. She would have to quit the book club. She could never show her face at the local store again. Never hold her head up at a neighborhood watch meeting…..no, no, not good enough. She would have to move. She would have to change her name. She would….why, she would move right in with the brothers! Yes, what a marvelous idea! See how they liked having a senior citizen fussing about their home. She frowned…oh, dear, they didn't live in a cave did they? She was rather fond of the comforts of a home: electricity, cable, mattresses, pillows, bed sheets, refrigerators – why, she just so happened to know that a person could hide from gun-wielding maniacs behind their doors – _indoor_ plumbing and laundry machines and….

Hey, wait a minute, she was unconscious! She shouldn't be having any thoughts!

Oh, so this is how it ends. Goodbye life. You were a good to me. You were a good life. I'll miss you. You were full of love and laughter and joy. You didn't provide me with riches but you provided a great home and vacations and designer clothes and educations for my boys. And you brought me my beloved husband. Oh, you gave me your share of heartache, the loss of a son and a grandson, but you gave me Jody, the daughter I'd always wanted. Sorry, you had to end this way. Here on my porch, with everyone looking on; me, with no dignity.

 _SMACK!_

Oh now! Now what the blazes is that? Stop slapping my cheek! Stop it, I say! Yes, yes, that is my name. Margaret, Maggie, Mrs. Mills, Mom, Gramma, I respond to all. Who are you? What is going on? Of course I'm all right! Why on earth wouldn't I be? No, I certainly do not require an ambulance. Good Grief! They're just bushes! Okay, yes, perhaps I over reacted a bit, but I was over wrought! You see, I had a visitor and…..

Her eyes flew open. "DEAN!"


	3. Chapter 3

Warning: This chapter still does not contain Sam.

* * *

Dean blinked, eyes fluttering but refusing to open and focus. Ambulance? That meant hospital. Well now, that sounds mighty fine, he thought hazily. Yup, he was okay with that. Comfy bed, free TV, 3 meals a day – catered, nurses, ooooh, nurses loved him…..they'd wait on him, read to him, sit and watch TV with him, feed him, bathe him, oh, oh yeah, now we're talking. Yeah, yup, load me up buttercup, let's go! Weeee-eeeee-eeeeeee-weeee-on the road again, just can't wait to be on the road again…..and _crash!_

Oh fuck, and here's reality. Hell, you just never go away, do you?

Oh. Oh, no. No, wait. Wait a minute, hold on – no, he really shouldn't go to the hospital. That wasn't a good idea! And why was that again? Think Dean…think, you better think…but….. he couldn't. Trying to think or concentrate was useless. It hurt his head which made his stomach sour which caused chest pains so he gave up without expending much effort. Well, alrighty then, maybe later.

He was quietly and quickly lifted onto a gurney, covered with a blanket, strapped down, carried away, loaded into the ambulance and driven away. He offered no resistance.

"Here now! Stop that!" Maggie batted irritably at the hands reaching to assist her. Someone wanted to hold her hand, someone patted her cheeks, hands were lifting her shoulders from the porch floor, hands supported her neck and held her head still and steady and yet _more_ hands were positioning her feet so that her ankles were side by side. Good Grief! Voices asked her questions, instructed her not to cross her ankles, told her she was okay. Well, of course she was!

Activity continued to whirl around her. People came and went. Noises faded, noises crested. It wasn't until the mention of summoning an ambulance that she popped right up! Oh yes, indeed she did! She sat straight up, back stiff as a board, shoulders square, legs stretched out in front of her with her petite feet perfectly poised with perky toes. Now, what was she about?

"Mrs. Mills?"

Oh right, that. "Yes, yes." she huffed impatiently, waving one limp hand. Hey, lookee that. Her wrists still worked. "Leave off." she experimented with the other hand; yup, flex, bend and waggle. No broken bones there. Thank the good Lord. However would she take care of Dean with a broken hand or arm?

She snorted. Take care of Dean, indeed! Why she…? Er, Dean? Her head whipped around so quickly, had she had her teeth in, they would have clacked. Her eyes darted all about, left, right, up, down, left, right.

"Now, just take it easy. Relax ma'am. You had a fright and suffered a fall. How are you feeling? Anything hurt? Sit still and let me examine you, see if you broke everything."

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" she rolled her eyes in agitation, hunched one shoulder then the other. "I'm perfectly fine." her hip throbbed a bit, but she was quite certain she hadn't broken anything in her undignified collapse to the floor. "I'm not broken, now go away."

"We should run you in, just in case."

 **"** Run me in? To where? The hospital! Pah!" she surged to her feet with grace, waving off further assistance. She was a bit wobbly but steady on her feet. "Where is he?" she demanded, once again looking all around. "What have you done with him? Dean?" patience and calm demeanor replaced by frantic panic, she rushed to the railing and doubled over it, all but halfway into her beloved rosebushes, her previous dismay over their fragility completely forgotten in her haste to locate her missing house guest. "Dean? DEAN?! DEEEAAANNNN!" she batted the leafs with her remaining slipper. How it had gotten into her hand, she never did recall. "Dean! Damn you, appear before me, RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT!"

"Mrs. Mills."

"Where. Is. He?" her palms slapped the railing with each word. "What have you done with him? I will sue you! Sue you, and you and you, and this town, this borough, this county, this state! I will have your job! Produce him. Now!" the slipper flew past several heads. "DEAN!

"Maggie, he's no longer in the bushes." Barry explained gently, coming to lead her away from the railing. "Remember? The firemen extracted him. The ambulance came and he was taken to the hospital."

Her eyes widened.  
Her jaw dropped.  
Her mouth worked.  
Her hands flew to her cheeks.

"And _you_ let him go?" she exclaimed. For a moment, she did nothing then recovering, waved off everyone's attempt to answer or calm her down. "How long was I out?" she ran down the few steps that lead from her porch. "Wait! WAIT for ME!" she scurried down her sidewalk, darted left, then right, then left, whirled in circles, searching for the departed ambulance. Distantly, she heard someone telling her she couldn't chase the ambulance on foot. "You sent him without me? How could you? Why? Why would you do that? What is _wrong_ with you people?" she balled her hands into fist and stalked the nearest person in uniform. She didn't care who he was or what he did; he wore a uniform, therefore he was the object of her ire. "Quickly. Drive me to the hospital. Right. Now. Right this very minute. Fire up that there rig, hit the sirens, turn on the lights and make way! Mild Mannered Maggie Mills is on a mission!"

"Perhaps you should get dressed first." Barry suggested calmly. "Then I'll drive you…"

"No time! No time!" Maggie clapped her hands. "If he _dares_ to die before I get the chance to _kill_ him myself, I will stuff and mount him and find a museum to put him on display!"

***000***

Dean was resting comfortably. He had no idea if he was mildly sedated or if he had been given some kind of muscle relaxers or some other such medication. All he knew was; he was comfortable, he felt no pain, no fear and no threat, therefore, he was content to remain where he was – lah-la land. The fact he didn't know exactly where lah-la land was had yet to become a problem for him.

He was dozing, lulled by the familiar, if unknown, sounds of activity around him when a door opened, a cart crashed and the curtain surrounding his bed was pulled back on screeching metal hinges. Ow, he winced, raising a hand to his forehead. What that instinctive reaction did, he really didn't know, but hold a hand to his head he did.

"Oh Goody!" Maggie exclaimed happily, clapping her hands in glee, like a 3 year-old anticipating an ice cream treat for good behavior. "You're awake! Come now, we should go before they know you woke up. They have plenty of questions I simply cannot answer." though what good fleeing would do, she didn't know. Everyone knew who she was and where she lived. If the authorities truly wanted to find him, they'd know where to look.

She paused. A devilish gleam lit her eyes.

But oh, it felt soooooo good to scold him. Heck, some yelling and ordering him about were definitely called for. Oh, yes. After everything he'd ever put her through, he deserved some payback. She grinned gleefully, smirking in anticipation of the fun she was about to have.

Dean blinked, working his tongue to bring saliva to his dry mouth.

"Get yourself up off that table, find your clothes and march yourself directly out to my car!" she raged, chest heaving in barely controlled outrage. Despite her need to play with him, she well knew authorities and doctors, for whatever reason, were people he avoided. "NOW!" she was not going to lose her temper. She was not going to give anyone further reason to talk about her. She. Was. Not. "Right this very instant young man!" she barked in her no-nonsense, five sons and one husband had always fallen-in-line voice. "I've talked to your doctor, you're fine." she said briskly. As long as he didn't do anything else stupid, he'd be fine anyway. Oh there'd be pain, a lot of pain and extreme discomfort but he'd be fine. "But you're checking out of here AMA, so move it."

"Say….what?" he yawned, nuzzling his cheek along the pillow. He sure as hell didn't feel fine! Not fine at all.

"It's a white Subaru." she seethed, searching through drawers for his personal belongings. "Surely you remember it? Well.," she conceded with a huffy snuff. "Maybe you don't. Your brain was scrambled worse than eggs that week."

"Aaaah…..what?" he was having scrambled eggs for breakfast? All right! High-five.

"So far, you've managed to interrupt my breakfast, disrupt my morning, intrude into my home, try my patience, break my furniture, double my electric bill, gather a crowd, cause a scene, make me the talk of the town, cause gossip, round up the entire town, bring out the POLICE, a rescue vehicle, an ambulance, a _hook and ladder firetruck to a one story rancher,_ AND brought me to the hospital looking like a homeless bag lady!" she was puttering around, opening and closing drawers and doors. "And!" her finger punched the air for emphasis. "For God's sake _,_ you accomplished _ALL_ that in less than 30 minutes."

Dean squinted, managed a one-shouldered shrug to relate his helplessness in understanding her tirade and let his eyes close. A homeless bag lady was in his room yelling at him why? Had he unintentionally invaded her squatting shelter?

"Look at me. Look. At. Me." Maggie hissed, turning in a circle, arms thrown wide. She bared her gums, tugged at her hair, the curlers dangling against her cheek, her chin, and pointed to her squinted eyes. "Do you see me? Do you? Do YOU see ME? I can't see me! Everything is a blurry blur! And you know why? Because of _you_! This is your fault! All YOUR fault! They think I'm a patient! They've tried to return me to my room THREE TIMES!"

Dean opened one eye, looked up, down, left, right and stared. Then let his eye flutter shut.

"Oh. No. You. Don't!" she stomped and waved and waggled her finger. "You get your ass off that table and out to the car in the next 5 seconds or so help me I will take Mad Myrtle up on the offer she made while I was suffering the indignity of allowing her to drive me here. I _will_ board you with her and I _will_ leave you there! And oh, don't look so smug, I'm not done." she stressed with overly dramatic flair. "And I _will_ plead ignorance when Sam comes looking for you!"

Dean had no idea who the fuck she was or what the hell she was rattling on about, but the mere mention of being 'boarded with a Mad Myrtle' despite knowing nothing about who or what a Mad Myrtle was, was enough to prod Dean into prompt and… ineffective action. His toes twitched, one foot moved and his head came off the pillow. Yeah, that was lean mean fighting machine Dean Winchester hopping-to-it to obey a petite, toothless, blind, scraggly haired old woman who was vaguely familiar. He squinted, blinked, rubbed his eyes and blinked some more. Oh. He knew her.

"Why does this keep happening to me?" she wailed mournfully. "I'm an old woman. Old I tell you!"

He stared, blinked, frowned. What the hell _was_ that in her hair? Was that _even_ hair?

"Oh, for the love of God!" Maggie cried impatiently. "What on _earth_ do they have you hopped on _?" leave, turn around, walk away, don't look back, just start walking and keep walking. You can do it. You walk very well for a woman of your age._ "And here I thought God tested me when he didn't bless me with a daughter! HA!" she tossed his jeans in his face, tucked one heavy boot under her armpit and wrote the t-shirt off as a loss. Socks….socks, let's see…nope, no socks. Oh well, no loss, he didn't need them to walk anyway. "Why aren't you dressed? What are you doing? No lollygagging around. Come on now. Chop-chop, hop to it!"

Whether it was the frightening thought that Mad Myrtle was apparently worse than….than….this, aah….lady or some subconscious need to avoid hospitals whenever possible, Dean sat up and swung his feet over the side of the examine table. The sheet across his legs slid off and he was relieved to discover he still wore his underwear.

While Maggie rattled on, searching for the elusive second boot, Dean's head began to clear. Right, yeah, the little bundle of spitfire was Maggie Mills and he'd arrived on her doorstep, tired, in pain and in search of a place to rest for a couple of hours. Why he'd ended up in the hospital and how he'd gotten there remained a blur and he wasn't in any mood to figure it out.

Pain stabbed, then flared, then spread and the room dipped and spun with dizzyingly speed. Oh right, short-ass trolls with the ability to land high kicks. Yup, pain was an instant and good reminder. It was all coming back to him. Except who or what a Made Myrtle was.

"Ribs?" he asked, putting his feet through the legs of his jeans one at a time then sliding off the table. "Cracked, right? How many?" he was moving in slow motion. He simply couldn't make himself move more than one limb at a time. He was on his feet but remained doubled over, hands supporting his weight with a death grip on the table. Jeans were at his hips and he willed himself to find the strength to button and zip the fly.

Maggie froze. For a moment, she couldn't move. Nope, she was completely incapable of reacting in any way. Her mind tried to work, tried to process but…..nope brick wall. She frowned, huh…..something….something…..

"You knew." Maggie whispered. Might as well talk to herself, no one else was apt to listen. "He knew, he knew, YOU knew." she straightened up, the search in the cabinet under the sink for the missing boot abandoned. "How _dare_ you!" she flew at him, caught herself up short before knocking him over, and took her frustration out on the table pad, flailing at it with her fists. "You knew you had hurt ribs and _still_ you drove to my house and knocked on my door and never said _one_ word about it!"

"Now's not the time." Dean panted. The floor was cold beneath his bare feet, it hurt to breathe, he couldn't stand up straight, and whatever they had given him made him dizzy and loopy. Yes, loopy.

"Where did you come from? How far did you drive? You know you endangered every innocent person on the road." Maggie demanded. "I've a mind to give you the good licking you soooooo deserve!"

"Say what?" what the hell was she blathering about? No matter, more important things were on his mushed-up mind. Like ribs. Ribs healed themselves. It was no longer recommended to bind ones torso with compression bandages because it prohibited the ability to take deep breaths and that could lead to pneumonia. Sam wouldn't care about that though. He would tape him up anyway then torture him by sitting on his bed and coaching him through breathing exercises.

Dean rolled his eyes then frowned in confusion, then grimaced in pain. Huh, where was Sam anyway?

"Aah, Mrs. Mills." the ER doctor strolled in. "And Mr. Winchester? I see you've made it to your feet. That's good. Good progress indeed."

Dean raised his chin from his chest, eyes peering up but he didn't speak. The doctor droned on but the next several minutes went by in a blur and whether he wanted to or not, Dean had to let Maggie take charge.

Yes, Dean did indeed have broken ribs, three of them.  
He needed to remain in bed and off his feet as much as possible for the next 2 or 3 days or risk puncturing a lung, rupturing a blood vessel or damaging internal organs, such as but not limited to: liver, spleen, and kidneys.  
Yes, it would be safe to resume normal activities before the ribs healed.  
No, do not wrap them. Ribs need to move. (yeah, Sammy, hear that? Huh, do you?)  
Yes, he could travel by car but it would be wise to wait, say two weeks.  
No, he could not drive.  
Surgery not required unless he did something stoo-ooooo-ped. (you know, such as head-diving off porches, over railings into hedges, after breaking glass coffee tables.)  
Sure, ice might help.  
He really should remain for a night or two for further observation.  
Did he have somewhere to stay?  
Did he have someone to take care of him?  
Would he like pain medication?  
Did he need a wheelchair to get out to the car?

"What?" Maggie tuned back in to the doctors droning diatribe. "He…he's…huh. No, he's not related to me, thank the Good Lord above." she glared disapprovingly at Dean. "He's my son's wife's brother." she gave it some thought. "Does that make him my son-in-law? No, I suppose not."

"Is there someone you can contact?" the doctor asked. "Does he have family? A wife perhaps?"

"Why? I mean, yes. I mean, who? Yes, of course. No. Well. His brother Sam." oh fuddle, she was babbling like a fool. And here she thought she had it – herself – pulled together, but nope, she didn't because reality had just slapped her silly. She held her palm against her forehead, boy was her head pounding. Reality = she had to take Dean home with her.

"Is he local?" the doctor continued. "You really should rest. Perhaps you should stay until you can stand upright. It will be easier for you to travel when you can breathe."

Maggie shot a dirty look at Dean when he remained silent. "Well?" she demanded. "Say something."

"What?" Dean held his one boot. "Well, what?"

"Sam." she spit out through clenched jaw. "Where is he?"

"Sammy?" Dean repeated slowly. He blinked, licking sweat from his upper lip. "He's in…Wyoming."

Maggie's dander went up. Again. Sky high.

"You drove here from Wyoming knowing you were hurt?" she twitched. "That's it. That. Is. It." _smack him, box his ears and leave him here, let him fend for himself, let him get in his car and keep driving._ "You are in big trouble mister!" she shook her finger in his face. "You are grounded! No TV, no internet, no phone. You will eat what I cook for you and you will eat it without complaint."

He was grounded? No big deal. He didn't like to fly anyway.

"Will you be taking him home with you for the time being?"

A devilishly evil look crossed her face. "I suppose I have to, don't I?" she swiped her palms together repeatedly as if ridding them of powder. "Can't very well leave him on the side of the road with a sign, now can I?" she paused. "Or can I?" she perked up then her shoulders drooped. "No, I can't. Jody would never forgive me." she chewed on her lip, gnawed on a knuckle, blew her breath out then shrugged. "Myrtle offered to take him in."

 **"** Not mad Myrtle." Dean panted appalled. "No mad Myrtle." he grabbed the sheet that had been over his laps and wiped the sweat from his face. "She's mad." he told the doctor. "Just gimme the meds. Ain't like I haven't had broken ribs before. I'll find a motel, get a room. No big deal."

The doctor frowned.  
Maggie pursed her lips and frowned.  
The nurse with the most-hospitals-don't-use-these-anymore prescription pad gasped, and frowned.  
Dean went home with Mild Maggie.  
And met Mad Myrtle.

***END***

* Though I very well might add an additional chapter where Sam arrives. In fact, I think I shall.


	4. Chapter 4

So...I lied...well, not really...I did warn you I might add an additional chapter where Sam arrives...it's just...it's taking two, maybe three additional chapters. I don't think anyone will mind.

* * *

Myrtle had indeed driven Maggie to the hospital, Barry had followed, driving Maggie's car and Myrtle had returned Barry home. Maggie could fuss and complain about her nosy neighbors until the cows came home, but when she needed someone to depend on, Barry and Myrtle were always there for her and they always came through; even if Myrtle never let her forget it.

A well-endowed chatty nurse had no problems pushing Dean out of the hospital and over to Maggie's car. Patting his shoulder and leaning over him to whisper sweet tidbits in his ear, she sure took her sweet old time rolling the wheelchair along the floor too. Despite her animosity toward the elder Winchester and her 70 some years of age, Maggie was annoyed over the unprofessional display of attention shown to Dean by the nurse.

"Move it along. I don't have all day!" Maggie snapped irritably. She was missing her stories! She'd already spent all morning and early afternoon at the hospital waiting for him to have tests and x-rays and whatnot, then waiting for the doctor and the prescriptions and a wheelchair. Yeah, her luck – who the hell ever had to wait for a wheelchair to be found? Maggie Mills, that's who! She was tired, her feet hurt, her legs both ached, she was hungry, she had a headache from squinting all day and she was leaving for home in the next three minutes, even if it meant she left Mr. Dean Winchester sitting in a wheelchair in the hospital parking lot with the big-boobed bimbo. "I'm an old woman wearing Myrtle's shoes and a man's overcoat in 100 degree weather and I can still move faster than you."

"Don't you worry cutie." the brunette cooed to an eating-up-all-the-attention-still-loopy Dean. "Your Granny might be a bit cross now, but once they're fed - you know, seniors - their moods vastly improve." she deliberately wiggled and jiggled because his head was tilted back and he grinned goofily up at her. "There now, you…"

"Trust me, if you think this senior Granny is cross now, just wait until you don't get him to my car in the next 60 seconds." Maggie cut in sternly. "I'm sure he's more than capable of walking and I'm just as sure you have other patients who actually require your assistance."

Dean turned his adoring, appreciative gaze from his current view of creamy bobbing boobies and gave Maggie a wounded look. Something somewhere between a pout and a frown.

"Oh No You Don't!" Maggie sniffed, ignoring him and turning her ire towards the nurse. "And do up your blouse buttons young lady!" she turned her back and marched onward. He was not going to make her feel bad or guilty. He. Was. Not. "Move it! Move along!"

Eager to return home, once Dean had been transferred from wheelchair to backseat, Maggie shooed the nurse on her way without a thank you or even a nod of the head, hopped in the driver's seat, pulled out and….drove towards home at an average of 5 miles an hour. Oh, not because she was an old lady and drove like one but because every bump in the road made the man in her backseat moan and groan and gasp and grunt. Even yelp once or twice.

And she couldn't have that. Oh no, that just wouldn't do.

Well dang it. The doctor had assured her, despite the additional bruising and swelling, Dean was going to be ok. Would be ok – barring any further stupid stunts, dives, crashes and/or falls. And she'd taken silent delight over the fact he would be in pain and experience mind-numbing discomfort but now…..now that she was actually seeing and hearing him, her maternal feelings pushed forward. Oh, those darn, dratted instincts just refused to go away. No matter how hard she tried, her 'female, feminine side, her woman's – okay, her mother's – nature to tend and heal and take care of and make everything all better' was front and center and just a knocking.

Well, damn it.

She slowed down. She didn't even have her foot on the gas pedal, just coasted along….trying to catch a handicapped man cruising along on his motorized Rascal. Oh and look, that cute little hopping bird was keeping pace with her and if that tyke on a plastic trike pedaling furiously on the sidewalk caught and passed her, she was going to deposit Mr. Winchester on the curb and let him find his own way to her house! And she didn't doubt he could do it, he knew where she lived.

Finally hitting what she considered a roadway, she turned right and picked up speed. The ride and road was much smoother and after adjusting her rearview mirror so she could see her backseat, she was satisfied Dean had fallen off to sleep and she dared to pick up speed. She heard no further sounds of pain, but boy oh boy, she'd been wrong about him being asleep! She was going to have to arm herself with a wooden spoon and whop his knuckles whenever he spewed such language once they were home!

Okay then, obviously she was going too fast for his pain tolerance. So….slower then. She huffed and puffed as she eased off the gas pedal! Damn wrong size shoes! At this rate of speed, it would take her half an hour to get home!

"Hang on to your bippie." she warned her backseat and slowly increased her speed again. She was quite adept at dodging potholes and slowing down for sharp curves without jostling the car and by doing so, achieved an acceptable speed she was able to maintain for the remaining drive home without further complaining or cursing from her backseat.

"Thatta girl Maggie!" she congratulated herself. "Woooo-weeee! We're cruising now."

Dean kept one foot on the floor and the other braced against the door. Sprawled on a too-small-for-comfort backseat, arms crossed over his chest, he bit his lower lip, kept his eyes closed and anticipated the sway of the car. By doing so, he was able to remain still and silent as the car sped crazily along the highway.

He battled his stomach as it heaved and zoomed up and down and back and forth in response to the wild ride it – and he – was subjected to. Good God, he hoped he didn't embarrass himself by puking like a car-sick 5 year old! Would it kill the old bat to drive at a sedate speed more common for a woman of her advanced age? Hey, crazy lady, this here car ain't the General Lee. Geez! Did she not know he was in some serious pain back here? Would it kill her to be a bit more considerate of his condition?

He attempted to stifle a groan and failed. Oh-woe! Where was Sammy? Would this rollercoaster ride ever end?

"Almost home!" Maggie sang with forced cheerfulness. The silence from her backseat was now worrisome. Oh, she hoped she hadn't damaged him further. And if she had, how would she know? "Hang in there. Be there in a jiffy." she turned onto her street. Her driveway, sidewalk, lawn and porch were clear, not a person or car or item from various, previous visitors remained. She backed into her garage and lowered the door before coaxing Dean from the comfort of the backseat and into the house. She steered him towards her spare room, wondering all the while why she hadn't left him at the hospital and called Sam or Jody to come get him.

And come get him Sam would! Of that, she harbored no doubts.

Dean in bed, the door opened so the a/c would continue to keep the room cool, she went to the kitchen to retrieve her phone. She had a lot to do before she could relax: clean up the mess on her living room floor, shower, dress, fix her hair, find her teeth and her glasses, make something to eat, somehow retrieve Dean's prescriptions from the drugstore without leaving Dean home alone 'cause Sam would not like, oh no he wouldn't. But first…..

"Hello Sam." she chirped. "Lovely day, wouldn't you say?"

***000***

Flo popped a bubble, eased off first one shoe, then the other. The lunch rush was over and only two well-known customers lingered over dessert. No one was likely to come in before the dinner hour, so who cared if she padded around barefoot for a bit? She owned soap and paid her water bill, she'd go home and take a hot bath and wash her feet. Besides, she wasn't walking all about the diner, just back and forth behind the counter.

"Whew!" she mopped her forehead. "This heat's gonna be the end of me!"

The door opened, letting in a rush of warm air and she stifled a curse. Who the bloody blazes was seeking lunch this time of day? In this heat? And letting all the a/c out? Oh…oh…oh…ohoh….oh no. Not him. Nope. Nuh-huh. Not gonna happen.

"Mel?" she yelled, snapping her gum. "Go away! Oh, I say." she reached under the counter and came out with a ball bat that she held with both hands. "MEL!"

"Right here." wearing the same greased-stained apron and all, the cook appeared beside her with a shotgun in his hands. "Some little shit trying to rob us?" he peered about, looking for the threat. "This time o'day?"

"No." Flo scowled. "But that there's trouble." she pointed the bat at the door. "Close the damn door! You're letting what little a/c I got out!"

"Is he waving?" Mel asked incredulously. "He's waving! What kind of dumb ass robber waves?"

"He ain't here to rob us. Go Away!" Flo yelled. "Be gone you. Don't be bringing no trouble to our door."

"Hey, wait a sec!" Mel growled. "Ain't that…..? IT IS! It's that kid that done broke the floor last night."

"What you be doing here!? Didn't you cause enough trouble last night?" Flo smacked the bat across her palm but without malicious intent. "You ain't trying to rob us, are ya?" she demanded suspiciously.

"Here now you." Mel gave Sam a suspicious look. "You back to say you gonna sue us? Now you just see here…."

"No." Sam said quickly, poised by the door, he held his hands help up in surrender but otherwise didn't move. "No, let me explain. My brother and I, he's the one you fed vegetables and milk." he scowled, he still hadn't forgiven Flo for that scare of his life. "We holed up in a motel. My ankle isn't broken, just badly sprained and we decided to rest up for a few days. But he had to go visit someone….our…she….in Rapid City and he's been in an accident and I need to get to him." he explained in a rush. "See, he ran an errand and…."

"What's he babbling about?" Mel asked Flo. "You got any idea what he's saying?"

"My brother took the car, and I have money, but I can't drive." he waved at his foot. His right, heavily bandaged, wrapped and held off the ground, foot. "The motel desk clerk was kind enough to give me a ride over here."

"What you be wanting from us?" Mel demanded. "We don't owe you nuthin'. We be peaceful folk. Go away."

"No…no. I mean….I was kinda hoping, you know, if maybe you knew anyone who could maybe give me a lift to Rapid City." Sam said with just the right degree of sheepishness, vulnerability and desperation. "I'll pay them, I tried to hire a taxi, but…." he spread his hands wide. "No one would take me seriously."

"All shaggy hair and sloppy clothing." Mel snorted. "An' ya wunder no one believes ya?"

"South Dakota, huh?" Flo mused. "You going to see your brother?"

"Yes. I want – need – to get to him, you know? Make sure he's ok. See him for myself." Sam capped his rising ire and reined in his temper. That greasy-ass-hasn't-seen-shampoo-in-a-month cook had the nerve to criticize his appearance? Really? At least Sam and his clothes were clean. Let it go Sam, let it go. "Be with him." he kept his attention on Flo, suspecting she was the weaker of the two. If they wouldn't help him get to Rapid City, he'd find another way, but he didn't want to waste any more time.

Flo nodded. "Seein' how upset you went and got 'cause you saw him drinking milk and all, yeah, I bet you do gotta go see him." she made a series of faces: frown, scowl, drawn eyebrows, furrowed brow, narrowed eyes, scrunched nose, jutted chin, curled lip, pursed lips. She blew raspberries. "Kinda went and had an all-out freak-out, didn't ya?" she snapped her gum. "HaHaHa!" she laughed then sobered. "Hey, he's okay, isn't he?"

"Accident you say? That car of his's okay, ain't it?" Mel asked anxiously. "That's a mighty purty car, I do say."

"Nothing he can't fix." Sam assured the cook. "He's a mechanic, knows a bit about body work too." he turned his soft-eyed woeful expression on Flo. "He's home from the hospital, but he's a difficult patient and Maggie, she's not so young any more. I don't want her to have to handle him by herself."

"Mel?" Flo nudged him with the end of her bat then put it away. "Help the boy out."

"Fine." Mel puffed. "Let me call up old Bear." he followed Flo's lead and put the shotgun away. "Bear drives big rigs, might be goin' that way, or will anyway, Flo goes and asks a favor."

"You do that." Flo nodded, shooing Mel on his way. "I'll send a nice doggie bag along for your brother. He did so enjoy my strawberry-rhubarb crumb." she paused, giving Sam a critical look up and down. "Guess I outta fix you something to take on the drive. Once Bear gets agoin' ain't no stoppin' 'til you reach where you're goin'."

"Sure, sure, yeah." Sam nodded. "That'd be great, thanks." he took a seat at the counter, grateful to relieve his throbbing foot of his weight. "I really appreciate your help."

Flo patted his arm and poured him a glass of lemonade while he waited. She paused then set a plate of donuts in front of him before toddling off to fix the 'doggie bags'. What a cluster, Sam sighed, sinking his teeth into a cream filled donut. Oooh, they were fresh! He hadn't expected that.

Here he was, sitting in a country-bumpkin diner with a bum foot that throbbed clear to his hip, unable to drive or even hitchhike, though he would certainly attempt it if that proved to be his only way out of town, forced to beg help from strangers. Dean was somehow in Rapid City, South Dakota, with, of all people, Maggie Mills and suffering from some kind of accident. Maggie hadn't been at all explicit with her explanation, leaving Sam confused and befuddled about missing teeth and misplaced glasses and no slippers and a man's overcoat and a chauffeur named Mad Myrtle with big boobed unprofessional nurses and hospitals who issued prescriptions on a piece of paper - who did that these days, Maggie had fussed and there'd been a story about a hook and ladder fire truck and the police, broken rosebushes and coffee tables and sightly spectacles – because a crowd had gathered on her lawn.

Sam shook his head, accepting a refill of lemonade from Flo who gave him a thumbs-up along with the report that Bear was en route to pick him up and deliver him to his destination. He nodded, smiling his thanks, all the while the same thought running through his head; he didn't even know if Dean had been able to take possession of the book.

The diner's two customers continued to slurp coffee and eat sticky buns, as though the cook and waitress running around with guns and bats in their bare feet was nothing out of the ordinary. And sad thing was, in Sam's life – it wasn't.

***000***

Dean lay on his back in the full-sized bed in the unfamiliar room and tried to think. Yeah, wasn't happening. He wore jeans, no shirt, no socks and no boots. Okay, let's see: warm, comfortable, quiet, safe. He was in a bed. Oh, right, he'd already established that fact. Alrighty then, moving forward. Room was stuffy but not hot. A circulating fan set on a feminine table – he squinted, a very feminine table – gently blew welcoming cool air. The room was quiet, yet he could hear muted music and/or voices, so somewhere a TV was on. Time to get up and scout his location.

He twitched a toe.  
Said toe protested.  
Abused toe sent a message to all nerves.  
All nerves responded by tweaking all muscles, causing them to seize.  
Seized muscles instructed wayward ribs to stab lung.  
Lung, now annoyed, responded by capturing breath and holding it hostage.  
Absence of breath made head go all dizzy.  
Dizziness robbed eyes of sight.  
Loss of sight made ears buzz.  
Buzzing ears made stomach rebel.  
Rebelling stomach annoyed already annoyed lung.  
Doubly annoyed lung was pissed off.  
Pissed off lung took delight in sending pain in every damn direction his body possessed.  
Or some such map within his body was travelled somehow.

Okay so, couple lessons had been learned: Scouting of current location not necessary, getting out of bed not going to happen anytime soon, he'd best learn to be content right where he was and oh yeah, DO NOT TWITCH TOE.

Finally showered and dressed in her own clothing, teeth and glasses found and in place, her hair combed, Maggie sat down at her kitchen table for a much needed cup of hot tea and some scones smothered with grape jelly. She called the pharmacy where she got her own prescriptions to see if they would fill and deliver Dean's prescriptions but no, they could not do that. She would have to bring them in herself.

Of course she would. Nothing was ever easy or simple when it involved Dean Winchester.

Mmm. She drummed her fingers on the table. What to do, what to do. She could call Barry or Myrtle to either pick up the prescriptions from the store or stay with Dean while she went to get them…wait. Wait just a minute. Why did anyone have to stay with Dean? Oh, right. Because Sam had said so.

Okay then Sam, solve my dilemma, oh so smart one. She waited. Waited some more. Waited until she had eaten all her scones and drank all her tea. Nothing. Nope, no answer floated magically through the air.

Her snack consumed, her dilemma unsolved, she checked on Dean, found him asleep, and went in search of her abandoned broom and dustpan so she could begin operation, 'clean living room, mourn antique coffee table'. That done – and look, she'd only sniffled a time or two while mourning the loss of her beloved table – Dean still quiet, she retreated to her room and began researching first aid on broken ribs. She'd nursed numerous males through countless injuries and illnesses but these Winchesters were a breed all their own.

Ibuprofen – check. (though the doctor had prescribed much stronger pain meds.) (And she needed to get them filled!)  
Ice packs – check. (though if the recommended frequency to apply ice was accurate, she would need to buy numerous bags of ice. Her ice cube trays made two dozen cubes of ice at a time and she didn't have an automatic ice maker in her fridge. Why would she? She was ONE person.)  
Rest and relaxation to avoid further internal damage – check. (the way Dean was nuzzling his pillow, he wasn't leaving that bed anytime soon!)  
Deep breathing and coughing exercises – check. (how hard could that be?)  
Daily activity – check. (there were plenty of chores he could do around the house. She would just have him avoid climbing ladders and not allow him to reach over his head.) (And he'd better stay away from her rosebushes!)

Okay then, all was good. Well, there was the extensive bruising and the numerous cuts and scrapes and thorn punctures, but none of that was life-threatening. She knew that because the doctor had said so.

Leaving a note, she picked up her keys and purse and left the house. She wouldn't be gone long and Sam would never even know she had gone and left his brother alone for all of 30 minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

All was good. Life was good.

Firm mattress, clean sheets, soft pillow.  
Room was cool, he wasn't dirty - well, at least his arm pits didn't stick from lack of deodorant.  
No rank stench, no funky stink, his breath (hand-cup test) didn't smell too bad - nothing smelled.  
He was kinda hungry, but not enough to get up and search out food.  
Nothing groaned or growled, cackled or crowed.  
Not a weapon in sight.  
Nothing and no one was trying to stab, shoot, strangle, choke, kill or otherwise harm him.  
There was nothing to fight or kill.  
There was no need to flee.  
Yup, life was good.  
His toe twitched.  
Or not!

Startled by the sudden pain, he yelped! Holy Hell! What the _fuck_? Awash in unsuspected pain and momentarily blinded, he struggled to sit up, using his palms to push up from the mattress. The damn, bloody _soft_ mattress that just seconds ago was so firm and comfy now kept him captive. He pushed and heaved and flailed but he simply could not find his way up and out of it! What the _hell_?

"Do you require assistance?" asked a nasal-toned voice pleasantly. A strange voice and a strange voice meant…a stranger was in the house! "Allow me to lend a hand."

Confounded, pain forgotten and replaced with astonishment, Dean yelped again, this time in surprise. His eyes previously closed against pain popped open and he struggled to focus on the…the…..the short, round, bald…..ah, man?…yes, man with thick-lensed-black-framed glasses wearing a loud plaid, checkered brown suit (A suit? This early in the day? In this heat? _Really?)_ made of….of some kind of material and print last seen somewhere in the early 70's, standing calmly in the doorway of his room. Seriously? Or was this, erhm – _little man_ , simply a creation of his over-tired, pain-filled imagination? Oh God, please, let it be so.

Well damn, not again! He'd had his fill of….of short, little men! Especially those with the ability to land high kicks!

"I would be more than happy to assist you." continued who Dean hoped to high hell was only a mirage. "Myrtle feels perhaps you would be more comfortable with another man assisting you than you would a woman."

Nope, Dean blinked, mirages didn't normally speak. Did they? Uh, Myrtle? Who was Myrtle? He didn't know any Myrtle's. Did he? No he didn't. Unless Maggie was short for…..no…..OH! He started with a gasp! Not Mad Myrtle!? He glanced around wildly. Was he…..at Mad Myrtle's house? OH. NO! When the hell had that happened? He frowned, how did he know who or what a Mad Myrtle was and why did the thought of being…..uh, boarded…with her disturb him so? Wait, boarded? Where the hell had that expression come from?

"Maggie?" he croaked. Bewildered but feeling no immediate threat, he took a moment to grasp his wits that had promptly deserted him upon sight of good ole Boss Hogg. Dean frowned. Wait, Boss Hogg always wore a white suite, right? And a hat. And no glasses. And ow-wow, deep breaths hurt. Huh. No, it hurt to _breathe._ Why was that? Hey, why did his face and neck and shoulders feel like the skin had been ripped off? What the _hell?_ What the _fuck_ was going on?

"Mrs. Mills had an errand to run." came the patiently spoken reply. "Is there something I can get you to ease your discomfort?"

Yeah, Sam.

"You are to relax and stay calm." said the man clad in what could only have been material meant for sofas. Seriously dude, you're dressed in a suit last seen covering a settee in the parlor of a brownstone in Philly! "You are not to become excited or agitated."

Oh sure, no problem there, Dean thought sourly, says strange little man in strange house. No excitement or agitation expected. Pfft-right! Mmm…..okay, so, let's see. Ease my discomfort, huh? Well, yeah, there's some moderate discomfort, a bit of pain, limited mobility….wait, what? Oh, right. "Ah…..ice?" oh, and find my skin and come up with a way to, you know, glue it back on.

"Maggie is out retrieving more, but we have enough to wrap in a towel to begin."

Begin? Begin what?

 _Clinkclackclink_. "Barry?" _clinkclackclinkclunk_. "What on earth is taking you so long?" boomed a boisterous voice and soon, in waddled who could only be Mad Myrtle waving an antique metal bedpan last seen in an episode of M.A.S.H in one hand and a more modern, yet still old urinal in the other. "You had one task! One! And you can't even manage to accomplish that correctly." she was a splotch of multi patterns in vibrant, no, fluorescent colors with hair dyed so black, her scalp was black as well. No woman that age had that natural hair color. No one.

Dean's eyes grew wide, his nose went pink, his ears turned red, then his neck, then he blushed…and he sank back against the pillows, shrunk down the mattress and pulled the light blanket up to his chin. Oh, if only he could sink into the mattress completely and go….poof!

"Which one does he need?" she tucked the urinal under the arm that held the bedpan and produced a roll of toilet paper from one of the many pockets in her brightly colored, billowing Mumu. Dean swallowed hard. "There now, no need to get embarrassed. I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable with Barry…" Dean squeaked. "…lending assistance but if prefer me, well I would be more than happy to….." Dean gulped. "…you can roll to one side and I can lift your cheek, though the bedpan might be a bit cold…." Dean paled. "….or I have these cleansing wipes. Cottonelle makes them, you know…" Dean squawked. "….or you can use your hands to raise your hips and I can….." Dean nearly 'swooned'. "I brought bed pads if you're worried about Maggie's mattress…"

Horrified, Dean threw a hand up to stop her then covered his ears with his palms, shaking his head to dispel the horrible image that attacked his mind…he – bedpan…Mad Myrtle – helping…..Barry – watching…..accepting toilet paper…

"AAAgghhhHHh!" he yelped. "Not bedridden!" he blurted out, mortified. "Really! I…" _I'm appalled, I'm at a loss for words., I'm flabbergasted, I'm so out of my comfort zone!_

But Mad Myrtle lumbered on, full steam ahead, no stops, tugging on the blanket, determined to wrest it from Dean's two-handed, fisted grip. "Come now, no need to be shy." she coaxed. "Nothing to fear. We'll get you right out of those jeans. They have to go. Can't believe Maggie put you to bed wearing clothes. Can't use either of these wearing pants. Here now, hold still and let get ahold of that slippery zipper…."

Must. Fee.  
Must. Flee. Mad. Myrtle.  
Must. Flee. Now.  
Myrtle. Was. Mad.  
Toe, I command you to cooperate or I will lob you right off your comfy perch on my foot and leave you behind.

"When you are done, I made you lasagna….." Dean perked up, prior embarrassment momentarily forgotten. Yup, forgotten. Just like that! After all, hello, she was talking about food! "…..homemade, rolled those noodles out myself, peeled and boiled home-grown, hand-picked tomatoes…" his mouth salivated. "…with basil and oregano and garlic….." his stomach grumbled in appreciation. "…some of those herbs were grown right in my own garden. Barry provided the onions…." was he drooling? He was drooling. "Ricotta cheese, beef _and_ pork and oh, I even added mozzarella….." the bedpan plunked down onto the mattress next to his hip and just as quickly as his mind had been diverted to food, it was diverted right back to his predicament.

He swallowed hard. Cas? Sam? Anyone? Hellooo! Some help here! Please?

"Myrtle." Maggie barked. "You are not feeding that boy acidic sauce while he is confined to my spare room and no!" she raised a finger for emphasis before Myrtle could offer an argument or suggestion. "You will not be taking him home with you."

"Hello Maggie." Barry greeted her. "Was you errand successful?"

"You were _only_ supposed to sit in the kitchen and listen for him." Maggie accused. " _In case he got out of bed_!"

"Maggie!" Dean chirped happily, reaching out for her hand and for no reason that she could fathom, Maggie entered the room and let him grab hold. "You're back!" he beamed at her. His face skewered with pain as the scratches and punctures pulled taut. "Don't leave me again." he added quickly. He squeezed her hand, fighting an absurd desire to kiss it in gratitude for returning to him.

"Everyone out!" Maggie turned and pointed to the door. "And take those….those….things…" she waved a hand at Myrtle's prior offerings. "…with you. For god's sake Myrtle, he's perfectly capable of getting out of bed and walking wherever he wants to go!"

Myrtle sniffed. "Just being neighborly Maggie. No need to twist your panties."

"I leave to go to the drugstore and find you hovering around my petunias trying to decide if you could see through the window to sneak a peek!" Maggie shooed the duo from Dean's room. "And you!" she pointed at Dean, who in turn, pointed at himself as if to question if it were indeed he to whom she referred. "Yes, you! No more of this nonsense! I will feed you in a bit, there's no need for you to go begging meals from the neighbors!"

Annoyed that she was mad at him, he opened his mouth to protest, but she was gone. He pulled a pout, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. Leave? Run? Drive to a motel? Call Jody? Where the hell was Sam anyway? Maggie returned while he remained in bed pondering his next move, with ice packs, asked if two were sufficient for his needs and turned to leave again.

"Say, aah, Maggie." Dean began bashfully, hesitant to test her mood and ask for anything more, but damn, he stung and itched just about all over. "Do you have anything like Neosporin?" he ventured hesitantly. "Generic's fine."

"They treated your numerous scratches at the hospital after they removed all the thorns with tweezers." she told him. Oh, she was not going to spend the next 30 minutes rubbing antibiotic cream on his cheeks, neck, arms and throat or anywhere else he'd been scratched, cut or scraped. Nope, no sirree, not gonna do it. Not now, not later, not at all. Nope, in honor of her rose bushes, he could sting and itch until Sam arrived to retrieve him.

 _Don't do it. Do Not Do It. Do not let him sway you. Do not get close to him. Do Not. He is not safe Margaret, he is a dangerous man, he is a criminal, he's been arrested, he shoots guns in roach infested motel rooms – she shuddered at the memory – rooms he is right at home in. He flees from the police. Stay away. Stay far away. Do not look at him. You don't care about those green eyes and pouting lips or that smattering of freckles and red nose or pink spotted cheeks and chin, all dotted and marred with red, swollen, angry abrasions and tiny holes no longer shiny with hospital applied ointment._

Uh, say what? Dean thought, confusion dusting his expression. Thorns?

"It's alright. You're ok. Everything will be just fine. I'm right here baby doll." Myrtle soothed, waddling in armed with jars, tubes, cotton balls, Q-tips and gauze. "Got what you need to make you feel all better." she puttered and toddled about the room, adjusting the direction of the fan, pulling the curtain, smoothing the blanket. "Don't you fuss none. Myrtle will make the pain go away."

"If he requires tending, I'll see to it." Maggie seethed. "But he doesn't because he's fine."

Dean eyed first one woman, than the other, weighing his choices. What was so wrong with Myrtle anyway? She seemed nice, wanted to see to his comfort, offered to feed him homemade lasagna. How could any of that make her Mad Myrtle? Mmmm…what to do, what to do. He reeaallyy-reeaallyy wanted that ointment but Maggie didn't seem agreeable to give him any. Heck, he wasn't asking her to apply it, just get it for him. He'd rub it on himself. He'd even get up and go get the tube if she would just confirm she had some in the bathroom or somewhere.

"Maggie, can't you see the poor boy is suffering?" Myrtle waved a hand at the bed. "Look at him!"

"I am!" Dean nodded vigorously. "Look at me!" he waved a finger all around and about his head to prove his point to Maggie who glared at him.

"I just brought him home from the hospital, he's fine." Maggie insisted. "Now go home Myrtle."

"I'm not." Dean shook his head. "Not really." was it worth pissing Maggie off further to obtain that much desired ointment? Maybe he should go home with Myrtle. "I don't feel good and…"

Maggie shot him such a look, he swallowed, feeling five years old again and being reprimanded for giving Sam his very first haircut.

Yeah, okay maybe not.  
Another look, hands on hips, toe tapping.  
Definitely not.  
Nope, not even going to suggest going home with Myrtle.  
Hell, had she read his mind?

"Go home Myrtle." Maggie ordered. "You are not feeding, bathing, tending or otherwise helping him. He won't be here that long, so don't go getting up to your usual antics. Now be gone with you! You heard me….shoo!"

"Don't think you're going to keep him all to yourself." Myrtle sniffed. "You think you're going to harbor him all to yourself." she went on to accuse. "But I won't stand for it. I'll be back in the morning _and_ I _will_ feed him breakfast." she announced. "After I give him a bath of course." she pinched his cheek. "And a shave." her thumb pried his lips apart and she loomed over him to inspect his teeth. "And brush his teeth." her finger was in his ear. "And clean those ears! My goodness!"

And just like that, Dean went from mourning the loss of Myrtle's medicated ointment to being appalled over being given a bath when he was perfectly – well, okay, maybe not perfectly but definitely able – capable of bathing himself. And hey, he could shave and brush his own damn teeth, thank you very much. He scowled, and there was nothing wrong with his ears either.

Swing! His emotions swung the other way - again - and Dean wistfully watched Myrtle tilt her nose upwards and march from his room, taking with her the much desired ointment that would soothe his irritated skin. And the promise of the much anticipated lasagna.

"Oh, stop looking like someone snatched the last cookie and left you with a celery stick!" Maggie scolded. "You are a grown man!" she flung her hands up and flounced from the room, following Myrtle.

Perplexed, Dean sighed unhappily, picking absently at the binding on the blanket he'd let fall from his shoulders. So, decisions, decisions. Get up and search for the ointment and hope Myrtle didn't take it home with her or lie back down and try and sleep. Or get in the Impala and leave. Find a motel and hole up until he felt better. Or someone, either Sam or Cas, came to get him.

"Alright." Maggie returned less than a minute later. "You produce a gun or snarl at me," she waved the tube of ointment about. "I will let Myrtle take you home, you hear me? I will drive you there myself!"

Dean nodded. "Yes, ma'am." he agreed and meekly submitted to her less-than-gentle dabbing and rubbing administrations. Good God, how much strength did one little ole lady possess in her finger and thumb anyway?

Finally, fed pain meds, packed in ice and thoroughly dabbed in soothing medicated cream, Dean went to sleep.

***000***

18 wheels on a big-rig.

Sam squirmed uneasily in the passenger seat of the dirtiest – and biggest – 18-wheeler cab he'd ever seen. Not that he'd been in all that many, but yeah, he'd been in several and this one was absolutely disgusting. Worse, it was a sleeper cab and the flimsy curtain that separated the sleeping area from the front two seats was not nearly sufficient and he was unable to suppress his shudders of horror.

Could this trip get any worse?

He'd thought they'd make the four hour drive non-stop in decent time. Ha! Not. Oh no. No, Bear had surpassed the allowed allotment of drivable time for big-rig drivers and had insisted on pulling over at a truck stop and getting some sleep. Sam had considered offering to drive, but he lacked a big-rig Class A CDL legal license and he was reluctant – no, scared – to suggest it to 'drive by the rule book', Bear.

So, here he was, attempting to cat-nap in the front passenger seat of an idling big-rig while its driver snored heartily behind the curtain; the flimsy curtain that blocked neither sound nor smell.

And just his luck, there wasn't another truck in sight from which he could hitch a ride! They were still over two hours away from Rapid City and though he'd made up his mind to start walking, a short trip to the rest stop bathroom had convinced him that wasn't such a good idea. He'd made it there and half way back and when Bear had come to get him, he'd accepted help getting back to and into the cab of the highest truck _ever!_

Oh, he could just picture it now; walking along a dark road, for he could hardly walk on the highway, where the police would certainly pick him up or passing out from pain, being found out cold on the side of the road and taken to a hospital. The police then contacted. Whatever scenario that played out in his mind, it ended with him in contact with the police and he didn't want that. So, here he squirmed, reluctantly accepting the fact he'd be at least another entire day getting to Dean and he wasn't at all sure Maggie had that much patience.

He really should call Maggie and notify her of the delay but…yeah, he was scared of the feisty senior citizen. He sighed and futilely tried again to find a comfortable position. Not Gonna Happen.

Healthy snorts made him jerk upright and he banged his sore foot against the floor board. Yow! He hissed as pain shot up to his hip, throbbed until he bit his tongue to keep from cursing, then settled there. His duffel sat on the floor between his feet and he retrieved a bottle of whiskey. Best pain reliever, mind-blocker Dean's money could buy.

Great. Another snort and snore. Yup, Big Ole Bear was appropriately named indeed! Between pain, discomfort, unfavorable housing and his roomie, he wouldn't be getting much, if any, sleep.

***000***

Maggie tiptoed around the rest of the afternoon and into evening, peeking into her guest room every time she passed the doorway. And no, she wasn't going to count or account for all the times and reasons and excuses she found or invented to get up and walk past that very door either. But all Dean did was sleep. In fact, he hadn't moved any time she looked in, changed the ice packs, adjusted the blanket she kept tossing over him or picked the pillow up from the floor and put it back underneath his head. Really, she should just stop doing that because it ended up right back on the floor. Then again, it gave her a valid reason to keep checking on him.

At first, she was pleased, then annoyed and now she fretted. How long was he going to sleep anyway, she fumed! Good Grief! He'd interrupted her morning, taken up her entire day, and now, he was messing up her evening! She was up and down every ten minutes and he had neither the common courtesy nor the decency to wink one of those sparkling green eyes at her! Well, she'd just see about that!

It was going on 9 o'clock and the boy hadn't stirred since falling into bed nearly four hours ago. Heck, he still wore his jeans and….oh. No, no wait a minute….he had managed to lift his head and swallow more pills after she'd finally chased Myrtle home. She'd had to put a straw in the glass of water, but….huh. She frowned, wondering just what those prescriptions were. Sam didn't like his brother taking anything with acetaminophen. She shrugged. Oh well. Sam could worry about it when – if – he ever arrived.

She had just picked up her remote when a yelp – alright, a high-pitched shriek – startled her so violently, the remote flew from her hand and skittered over the back of the sofa. Great, just great. She was one of the few people left in the country who didn't favor open-concept floor plans so her sofa was positioned against the wall, which meant she would have to stand on the sofa with her fanny in the air and swat her yardstick to move the 'bloody electronic device a person couldn't live without' along the floor until she could crawl around on her hands and knees with her head stuck between the wall and sofa and grab it. Why? Well, she had to retrieve it because only 3 year-olds knew how to change the channel on these new Smart TV's, the good Lord knew she didn't know how to do it.

A thud, followed by a crash from her guestroom recalled her memory. Oh, right, yeah, so the remote would have to be retrieved later, 'cause right now, apparently, someone was either attempting to murder or steal her houseguest. Oh, if Myrtle had snuck in with that bedpan and scared the boy witless, why, she would stand up in church next Sunday and label her nosy neighbor a house-breaker.

"Stop screaming the house down." she muttered, shuffling down the hallway. "I'm coming." not that she had any idea what she was going to do when she got to his room, but…..she stopped, oh dear, he didn't have that gun stuffed under his pillow did he? Not that she'd seen it any of the 100 times she'd picked the pillow up and put it back on the bed, but that didn't matter. She'd never seen him with it while stranded in a no-name motel with him, but every time she'd turned around, there it was, right there in his hand. "Here now, what's all the fuss about this time?"

Dean was standing in front of the mirror hanging over the dresser, staring in horror at his reflection. The crash had obviously had been his hands grasping for purchase amongst the various bottles and knickknacks across its surface. And oh, Maggie scowled, her thoughts still on her misplaced remote and ways to retrieve it, the shriek had been one of alarm when he'd seen his face and not pain. She was going to box his ears!

"What the hell happened to me?" he demanded, fingertips touching his cheeks. "Who attacked me with…..with…with whatever did this?" he frowned. "And why did you let them?"

She rolled her eyes, crossed her arms over her chest, tapped a toe then turned and shuffled back down the hallway. "You did it to yourself and you owe me new rosebushes." she called over her shoulder. "One yellow, one purple."

Dean blinked, say what? Did she just walk away from him? Oh no she didn't!

"And one antique glass-top coffee table. Wood, mind you. None of those fancy veneers or faux marble. Oak….no, cherry or maybe maple." but she was out of sight and Dean could no longer hear her.

He shook his head but it did no good. He was still confused.

"Are you hungry?" she yelled. "You want something to eat?"

Dean blinked, now that he heard! His appearance was forgotten as his growling stomach demanded attention. Food! Yeah, yeah, feed me, it sang. Gimme some o-that tasty homemade lasagna. Oh, yeah, now we're talking. Dish it right up and serve it to me with some toasted garlic bread. He pivoted and made for the door. He saw a bathrobe – obviously a man's, thank God – tossed over a quilt rack and after shucking his jeans, put it on and belted it before heading for the bathroom.

He was rubbing his palms together and licking his lips in anticipation of delicious pasta as he headed towards the kitchen, detouring to peek out the front window and make sure his car was still in the driveway when Maggie bellowed from the kitchen.

"Chicken broth? Or beef?"

Gooey cheese, spicy sauce, tasty meat, _homemad_ e noodles…uh, wait what? Broth? He slowed and stopped. Broth was just flavored water. He knew that because Sam was fond of trying to feed it to him when he was restricted to bed after suffering an injury that landed him in the hospital that he checked out of AMA.

Those were his choices for dinner?

"But…I don't like….HEY! Broth is for babies!" he yelled loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. "Feed me broth, pfft, not an invalid." he muttered, turning to a mirror on the hallway wall to watch himself pout. "Slurp flavored water from a mug. Ha! Not gonna happen."

But it did.  
He was served chicken broth with a side of toast.  
That no amount of pouting **,** sulking or eyelash batting convinced Maggie to grudgingly spare a bit of butter for.  
No, a pat of Parkay was only produced _after_ he clumsily retrieved a remote control from behind the sofa.  
Use a yardstick, indeed! No man _ever_ used a yardstick! For any reason.  
Not even if it would make it easier for a man with broken ribs courtesy of a 5' troll, who had fallen to the floor amid broken glass from a collapsed _flimsy_ coffee table and finished off by measly rosebushes, to complete a simple chore a dog could have accomplished.|  
With less fuss.  
And no amount of panting and staggering, groaning and yowing elicited a lick of sympathy from her.  
Nope, nadda. Not even a there-there or a thank you.  
All it got him was a bit of butter.

He was back in bed, breathless, still hungry and in pain before it occurred to him to ask what her remote had been doing behind the sofa in the first place.


	6. Chapter 6

Merry Christmas everyone!

* * *

Maggie woke up exhausted, irritated and oh yeah, mad as a hornet. Why, you might ask?

Oh, where to begin!

Her nerves were fraught with tension. Her body was sore from falling in a dead faint on her wooden front porch, then standing around for hours on a hard floor at the ER in borrowed shoes. She hadn't slept well at all; the heat, the humidity, her houseguest. She'd dozed with one ear on alert for any noise or sound that meant Myrtle had once again invaded the house. Or for any indication Dean was awake and in pain or needed something or doing something utterly stupid – you know, again.

She'd gotten up every two hours to change the ice packs and feed him pain meds every four. Oh, she supposed he could have done it himself but really, did she want him wandering around in the dark searching for something else to break? Or worse, find himself something to eat in her kitchen? Good Lord! Had he done so and turned on a light, Myrtle would not have been turned away at the door.

She sighed.

The day was hot. Again. Her electric was spotty, had been on and off overnight and now her house was warm. While retrieving her newspaper from her front sidewalk, she'd had to spend several moments in the humidity assuring Myrtle – whom she met in her petunias, _again_ – that no; Dean did not require her assistance bathing; no, he did not need her homemade western omelet complete with Wisconsin cheese or her cinnamon French toast or the fluffiest ever mini chocolate chip wheat pancakes _OR_ her true and classic Belgian waffles, crisp on the outside, light as a feather on the inside – ARRGGH! – she returned to her cooling kitchen and made Dean plain oatmeal with a sprinkle of sugar.

She refused to revisit the spectacle that was yesterday and had yet to work up the courage to confront what she knew was the town gossip – her. So she hid in her house, but yeah, it failed to be her normal sanctuary. Why? Well because her houseguest was quite cranky and he roused to complain about: EVERYTHING!

Why was it so warm?  
Why didn't his room having a ceiling fan?  
Why didn't she have central air?  
Why didn't the TV in his room have hi-def cable?  
Was that a VCR?  
Truly, no really? A _VCR_?  
Where was the Blu-Ray player?  
What did she mean, she didn't have a laptop?  
Or a tablet?  
How could she ask; what was Wi-Fi?  
Why couldn't he have bacon and eggs for breakfast?  
Coffee woman, black and strong.  
Milk? Seriously? Didn't she know what happened the last time he drank milk?  
Grape fruit juice? Eww!  
Bran muffins? Not yet 40!  
Did she not ever visit the grocery store?  
Why hadn't she washed his clothes?  
Could she put his car in her garage?  
Could she turn her TV down since he couldn't close his door?  
Which, yeah, _was_ her fault, since her house lacked central air.  
Would Myrtle be back?  
Where was Sam? Hadn't she called him?

And to think, the previous evening she had fretted because he'd slept too much. HA!

 _Sam Winchester. Just wait until I get my hands on you! Just where in the bloody blazes are you? You haven't called, answered your phone or shown up! And when you do grace my door, why, protect your ears, for I am going to grab one by its lobe and give you quite the talking to even if I have to stand on a chair to do so! I'll have you know, I'm quite agile atop a rickety table. I assure you, I can handle hopping onto a chair!_

She was on her sofa, her feet not propped up in their usual position on her coffee table, still in her nightgown and bathrobe, reading her paper while sipping coffee, the TV on to a morning news show when a commotion outside her front door, caused her to frown and turn up the volume.

"HEY!" yelled Dean. "Turn that down, would ya?"

"My House!" she yelled back. "Shut your damn door."

The loud, rumbling, coughing, belching, vibrating annoyance did not abate. In fact, it grew closer, louder, heavier.

She frowned. Her walls were thrumming. Her lampshade swung ever-so-slightly. Her picture frame walked slowly inch by inch across her mantle over the fireplace. Oh now hey, that hovering, thrumping noisy nuisance was….why, it sounded like it was right outside her house….no…no way. It couldn't be!

She bolted to her feet and sprang over to her front door. IT WAS! It was right outside her house! And it was….oh no! Not again! This would not do! It just would not do!

"OH NO YOU DON'T!" she charged out the door, across the porch and down the steps. "YOU ARE NOT PARKING THAT CONTRAPTION IN FRONT OF MY HOUSE. BE GONE!" she fairly flew down her sidewalk, waving her hands. "Shoo! Shoo! Oh, SHOO, I say. Be gone. Go away. Leave. Good day to you!"

Just when she thought she couldn't be any more mortified then the day she'd spent in hell (yesterday), she was once again proven wrong.

Oh, this would not do. It just would not do! If ever a time was appropriate for throwing a tantrum, now was it. A good ole fashioned foot-stomping, sit-on-the-ground, heel-kicking, hand-waving fit was indeed called for. For on her quiet street, in front of _her_ very house, where UPS vans were not frequent, where no moving vans or buses ever went by, sat a big ole, dirty, rumbling, black-smoke emitting, foul smelling big rig. An 18 wheeler! A semi! A tractor-trailer! And it was hauling a HOUSE!

The extended cab vibrated and shook from the huge idling engine. It made an obnoxious, loud noise. The exhaust smelled, sending plumes of blue/grey smoke into the air that cloaked the trees and hung heavy in the humid, choked air.

 _Thrum, thrum, thrum,  
_ _Rumble, rumble, rumble,  
_ _Puurrruurrruurr,_

The pavement beneath her slippered feet hummed and thrummed, making her legs tingle from the heavy vibrations. Oh, it needed to move on before it drew a crowd. She couldn't face that again, not again. Oh, she just couldn't!

What were the chances the driver was lost? And just happened to park in front of _her_ house – at a time when Dean Winchester was in residence – while he consulted a map, or an atlas or google or whatever truck drivers used these days to find their way.

And how the hell had he maneuvered that long house-trailer around the curves and corners into her neighborhood? Why, that was the biggest, longest, highest and widest tractor-trailer she'd ever seen in her life! Was that thing even street legal? And what was it doing in her neighborhood! No one was moving out, no houses were for sale. Double-wide and modular homes just were not in her neighborhood, they just weren't! And semis just didn't...oh. Oh. OH. OH NO!

She hopped in agitation, hands flying to her mouth in dismay.

The driver's door opened! Someone was getting out! Was climbing down to the ground! Oh Dear Lord, BigFoot existed. Right there was living proof! And it was walking right towards her! He was so HUGE! It must be BigFoot's big brother. _It had to be!_ No human male could possibly be that big!

She stuttered to a stop, hands now clasped to her chest in confusion when BigFoot ignored her, rounded the front of the cab and opened the passenger door.

"Oh no." she gave herself a shake, shaking off her nonsense and coming to her senses. "You have the wrong house! Please go away! It's so early and…"

BigFoot helped someone down from the passenger seat. Literally climbed onto the step, reached in, lifted, backed up, and set….Sam – _SAM_ – on the grass next to the curb the huge truck idled against!

So, no, not a mistake. _DRAT!_

"Howdy ma'am." the driver finally greeted her. "Here's your package. Never say ole Bear doesn't deliver right up to your front door." Bear swung down a sizable green duffel using two fingers. Maggie gaped, she knew how heavy those deceptive looking bags were. "All in one piece too. He was damaged before I got him."

"Meep." Maggie stuttered.

"Hi Maggie!" Sam waved, opposite arm slung around the shoulders of the largest, biggest, shaggiest man Maggie had ever seen in her entire life. She gulped…..Oh Dear God. "Sorry it took me so long to get here. Can't drive, couldn't hire a cab, no bus, couldn't hitch." he hopped and hobbled towards the house. "How's Dean? Is he still here? I see the car. He's not in the hospital is he?"

Nothing could be worse.  
Not two days in a row.  
This morning could not possibly be worse than yesterday.  
And here she'd thought, the police and paramedics and firemen with ambulances and hook and ladder fire trucks couldn't be topped.  
HA!  
There was no way this scene, this spectacle, this….this…..this moment could get worse!  
Oh, sure it could Maggie! Why, just turn around to see how!  
Maggie turned around to see what had made the biggest man on earth hide – _hide_ – behind Sam and moaned, feeling faint.  
For there he stood.  
On her porch.  
The door wide opened behind him.  
Letting all her a/c out.  
Again.  
All tousled hair and sleepy-eyed.  
Clad in a t-shirt and underwear.  
In plain view of _everyone_.  
Holding a gun on the driver of the big rig.  
Looking mad, mean, maniacal and promising violence.  
Dean.

"SON-OF-A-BITCH!" Maggie exploded, stomping a foot. Where the hell had that _damn_ gun come from? Where! _WHERE_! Anyone? Anyone at all? Could anyone tell her where he kept that damn gun?! "GET IN THE HOUSE!"

A gun in her neighborhood? What would her neighbors think? How would she explain it? Explain this? Normal people did not go around waving guns in public. They just didn't. They simply did not. And oh, there. Yup, there came Myrtle and that was Barry and oh, she was lightheaded. Great, just great!

"Dean!" Sam called to reassure his brother that violence was not necessary. "I'm good. I…..MAGGIE?" he yelped in alarm when, for only the 2nd time in her life, and in less than 24 hours, mind you, Maggie Mills crumpled in an ungainly heap right there on her own front lawn.

Oh, this couldn't be happening to her. Not again, she moaned. How much was one old woman supposed to be able to handle? The heat! Her rosebushes! Her coffee table! Her electric bill! Myrtle hanging in her petunias trying to peek into her guest room window. Hadn't yesterday been embarrassment enough ? The police, the fire truck, the ambulance, the hospital. Oooooh-oh-ooooooh-woe-ooooh.

No, just no.

Oooooh-oh-ooooooh-woe-ooooh. So this was the good Lord's punishment for secretly – or not so secretly – harboring a yearning for wanting a daughter. For favoring Jody over her other four daughters-in-law. For never telling Jody no. For answering her phone and opening her door to the _Winchesters!_ For not running when she first met – uh, was confronted by was more accurate – the brothers.

I say, oh-Good-Lord, take me now. Just call me home.

What? What the…..? Now, what was that? Ooohhhhhh! Paws? Were those hairy paws? They were!

Hands were on her arms, lifting her head to rest against a not-so-good-smelling shoulder…..more hands than any one man could possibly possess. She gasped, eyes popping right out of her skull, no literally, they indeed left their sockets….was that a _boob_?! Was…was…was….BigFoot, gulp, _female?_ Oh no. No way was the she-he-Bear going to touch her. She shuddered at the thought of being picked up and carried in the arms of whatever the hell BigFoot was.

"Maggie?" Barry was calling anxiously, hovering behind BigFoot. "I fear you have overexerted yourself again. You simply must take it easy during this very unusual heat wave."

"I'm fine." Maggie insisted, waving and slapping paws and hands away. "Just the heat." she rallied and sat up. "It's been so hot!"

"You must come stay with me." Barry said firmly, popping up under BigFoot's arm. Now, how on earth had he managed to weasel his way between Sam and Bear. "I have central air. I insist."

Bear helped pick her up and set her on her feet but didn't let go. "Got two arms, let me escort you both into the house." he/she offered. "It's mighty hot out here."

"NO!" Maggie cried, then, not wanting to risk offending her, aah, visitor, hastily backtracked. "Uh, I mean, it's so early and this street is mostly seniors and no offense, but your, um, truck is so big and noisy and well, the neighbors…." she waved weakly at Barry and Myrtle, wanting Bear – oh-so-appropriately-named by the way – and his/her big, noisy, smelly truck gone. Long gone. Gone now. Gone far away.

"Sure, sure." Bear nodded. "I get it, I do. Okay then, I'll let your friend here escort you and I'll get Sam here to the house and I'll be on my way." he/she swung Sam's green duffel over his/her shoulder, collected Sam's weight and made for the porch. "Howdy there buckaroo." he/she greeted Barry with a nod of her/his head. "Mite warm out, wouldn't you say?"

Please don't ask to use the bathroom, Maggie silently chanted. Please don't ask to use the bathroom. Oh please don't ask to use the bathroom. "Can I fill a thermos with lemonade or ice tea for you?" Maggie offered pleasantly _. I don't want you in my house_ and g _et the hell off my street._ "Do you have a long drive?" _I wish you far away; far, far away, never to return._

"Thank you much ma'am, but nope. I'm good."

 _Oh, Thank God!_ "Here now, that's good." Maggie hopped along behind Bear and Sam, Barry on her heels, Myrtle on his. "Let him sit for a minute on the step and rest. Dean here will help him into the house."

"Hey!" Dean protested, gun gone and all wide-eyed innocence and cutesy once again. No sign or display of the dangerous criminal Maggie knew him to be. Now, where had he put that gun? _WHERE_? Once of these days, she was going to steal his clothes under the pretense she needed to make a load of laundry and find that mysterious pocket! "Broken ribs here. I ain't lugging his ass up all these steps."

Maggie sputtered. All what steps? The mere three on her porch? Those steps?

"Steps ain't no problem." Bear said cheerfully. "I'll carry him right up to the house. Just tell me where to set him down."

"Oh, now no need to fret." Myrtle pushed past Barry, took Sam's free hand in both of her own and patted it repeatedly. "Why, just look at you! You poor thing!" she noticed his slight wince. "Is your hand hurt? Oh dear, how will you get on? It's a good thing I'm here. Maggie's been so selfish, erhm, preoccupied with Dean here, she won't have time for you."

"NO!" Maggie protested belatedly. She'd been distracted by Myrtle and had missed Bear's offer. "I mean, I don't want to keep you."

"Are you sure? I don't mind help getting him settled. He's hardly any weight at all." Bear gave Myrtle what passed for a smile but in reality was a frown and slightly shifted Sam's weight.

 _You'll set foot in my home over Sam's prone body…..you….you….drug-addicted, disease-infected, vermin-infested lowlife with your house polluting my neighborhood!_

"Oh, I'm sure." Maggie cackled sweetly. "Dean is hardly handicapped."

"I'm good." Sam told Bear. "Thanks for the lift Bear. I really appreciate you going out of your way to bring me here."

"Not a problem." Bear looked around. "You sure you're welcome here?"

"Yeah." Sam doubtfully replied. "Uh-huh, sure, yeah. I'm good."

"And you're sure you want to stay?" Bear joked, relinquishing Sam's weight to the porch railing and eyeballing the senior trio. "Really sure?"

"My brother's here." Sam said quietly. "And until I deem it's safe for him to travel, here is where we'll stay."

"If you're sure." Bear set the duffel down. "She's a feisty ole lady, good luck."

And Sam balanced on one foot, holding to the porch post for balance – for Dean hadn't offered a hand and had at some point, disappeared into the house – the green duffel at his feet, watched while Maggie, grinning like a crazy lady waved good-bye until Bear and his/her home were out of sight.

"Get up!" she snarled at poor, unsuspecting Sam who had sat down on the lowest step. "Get in the garage. Move! Quickly! Before someone sees you! Before you cause a _worse_ scene! Move along! Hobble! Hop if you have to! Crawl! I don't care! Just move!" she smacked him up the crown of his head. "If anyone else comes toddling over here before you disappear, I will let Myrtle have Dean. I will give him away. You hear me? NOW MOVE!" she yelled. She could still hear the big rig and see the smoke from its stack and oh by now, a crowd would have gathered to see what the noise and fuss was all about. _Oh, please, please don't let anyone connect that, that…..that contraption to my house_! "MOVE!"

Sam moved.

"ACK!" she squawked, hopping and flapping. " _Where are you going_? What ails you? Round back, go around...hey not through the house!" she bellowed. She made a grab for the back of his shirt and came up with the waist of his jeans. Wow, he was taller than she thought. "Backdoor! Common sense, my good man. Find some!" she snapped her robe to shoo him along. "NO! Not that WAY, the other WAY! You are NOT stepping foot IN my house UNTIL I've hosed YOU down!" emphasizing every other word made her feel better, even if in no way, it made any difference.

Sam didn't move.

"Oh, for Pete's sake! What on earth is the matter with you?" she demanded crossly, praying she still had time to get Sam inside before for the rest of the streets residents came investigating another disturbance in the neighborhood. "The truck? Crawling with vermin! Not in my house, I tell you. Not. In. My. House!"

"Vermin?" Sam repeated stupidly. Still too dumbstruck with confusion to obey or understand or comprehend what had Maggie so irritated, he remained motionless. Rooted to the spot upon which he stood.

"YES! Vermin! Lice! Fleas! Ticks! V-E-R-M-I-N." she spelled it out. "Vermin! You _do_ know what that is, don't you? Your education can't be that lacking."

Sam glanced over his shoulder for both physical support and back-up from his brother but right, Dean was no longer on the porch. Or outside.

"You still have one good foot." Maggie snapped. "Quit gawking and get hopping."

"Right here." Myrtle was holding his hand and tugging gently. "Come now, we'll get you inside and comfy."

"I say Maggie, who was that?" Barry was asking as Sam hopped along with Myrtle. "Perhaps we should talk about the company you keep. Was, um, that…..a….um, well, I believe she was female, was she not?

***000***

Finally allowed in the house, showered, deloused and dressed in clothes Maggie had retrieved from the car and deemed acceptable, Sam refused her offer of a cool glass of water and went to see his brother.

"Hey." Sam greeted, hobbling into the bedroom. "You awake?"

"Yeah." Dean yawned. He was in bed but roused to prop himself up against the headboard. "You couldn't find a less, uh, flamboyant way to get here?"

"Flamboyant?" Sam repeated with a tired grin. "Really Dean? That's all you can come up with?" he plopped down onto the mattress next to Dean's hip.

Dean shrugged, too tired and too sore to really care how Sam had arrived. He hadn't slept well the prior night and wished to nap the rest of the morning but nope, here was good ole Sam and he was fairly sure – no, he was certain – sleep wouldn't be coming any time soon.

"Didn't you, like break your foot or something?" Dean accused. "Or your hand? I left you with something broken, didn't I?"

"Weren't you supposed to retrieve a book and return to the motel in an hour?" Sam countered.

"You neglected to tell me the store wasn't an ordinary bookstore and the little ole man wasn't just a clerk but actually a troll with the ability to land kicks that were capable of breaking ribs on a man twice his height." Dean retorted crossly. "Thanks. Thanks for that."

"I didn't know."

"What the hell's so special about that book anyway?"

"It's an ancient manuscript that should be able to translate an extinct language…" Sam began but Dean raised a hand to languidly wave him off. "Did you get it?"

"Whatever." Dean cut in. "Can you drive?"

"No." Sam began tugging at the blanket Dean held on to with an iron grip. "Let go." tug, tug, tug. "Did you get the book?"

"Go away." Dean tugged back. "It's in the trunk. Now quit pulling or you'll never lay your paws on it."

"I have two good hands and can easily best you while you're flat on your back." Sam warned easily. "Now let go."

"I've seen a doctor." Dean scowled. "At the hospital. Now lemme alone."

Sam paused, taking in Dean's mottled, red-spotted skin shiny with ointment. "What happened to your face?" he temporarily gave up the tug-of-war game for control of the blanket and reached with a fingertip to gently tap one or two spots on Dean's cheek. "Seriously Dean, what's this?"

"I, uh, fell."

"How?" Sam tipped his brother's head up by two fingers placed under his chin. Then down, then left, then right, then up again. "Into what?"

"Um, rosebushes, I think."

"You think?"

"I was…..being chased….by a broom and the table broke and I ran out of the house….." as he was relating the story, he forgot to guard his chest with a tight-fisted hold on the blanket and next thing he knew, Sam had whipped it completely off the bed. "HEY!" he grappled with Sam's wandering hands but it was no use. His t-shirt was pushed up and fingers and thumbs pressed and poked and prodded and caressed. The tsk-tsking behind clenched teeth soon got on his last nerve. "WHAT?" he snapped crossly. "Stop…sto…hey quit it. Cut it out."

"You aren't taped." Sam said flatly. "Why didn't you have them tape you up at the hospital?"

Dean opened his mouth….but yeah, he didn't get to answer.

"Because it is no longer recommended." Maggie strolled in with ice packs. "It is no longer an acceptable medical practice. And really, does it do any good?"

"In his case, yes." Sam replied. "He's too active and compression bandages help prevent shards of bone from moving or puncturing an internal organ and he knows that."

"No shards." Dean grumbled. "Nothing in danger of being poked either."

"Hum-um." Maggie nodded. "But doesn't wrapping them also cause inability to breathe deeply which can lead to pneumonia?"

"Yes." Sam confirmed. "But there are breathing exercises."

"Sammy." Dean whined. "Dude, I've been through enough."

"Not yet you haven't." Sam muttered, turning to lift the green duffel onto his lap where he rooted through it.

"Why's it so hot in here?" Dean complained. "It's hot Sam. I'm hot and I don't want no bandages Sam. It's too hot to be all taped up. I'm good."

"Do you need help? You need help." Myrtle popped up to hang over Sam's shoulder, causing him to jump with a yelp that landed him on the floor on his ass. "Here, let me do that. You sit him up and I'll hold him while you wrap." she ignored Sam and turned her complete attention to Dean. "Don't you worry doll, Myrtle is here. We'll get you all fixed up and comfy. Just you see."

"Uh, Sam?" Dean called, inching up the bed until his back was against the headboard. "Sam! SAM ! Little help here!"

Sam picked himself up off the floor, dusted the ass of his jeans, took hold of Myrtle by the shoulders and gently set her aside.

"I'll take care of him." he gave Myrtle a smile. "How about you…uh….go….make breakfast? Squeeze some lemons and make him some lemonade."

"Lemon…." Dean sputtered with a scowl. "Ade? The hell, Sam."

"Oh, but it's morning and he hasn't had his bath yet." Myrtle fussed and bussed. "I don't believe Maggie has even helped him wash his face. He must brush his teeth and…."

"Thank you." Sam said simply. "I've got him." again, he gave her his trademark smile but, yeah, she was trying his patience and his smile was tight.

"But…how?" Myrtle crossed her arms. "You're injured too. You need tending. How are you going to help him bathe with a bum wrist? You can't even walk!"

Hands still on her shoulders, Sam turned her around to face the door and gave her a subtle shove. "You go make some pancakes…..some hot coffee…..he likes it percolated, and squeeze that lemonade and whatever I don't have washed or shaved or bathed or brushed or taped or wrapped, you can have the honors. Deal?"

"HEY!" Dean protested.

"Go make breakfast in your own kitchen." Maggie ordered. "And take Barry with you."

"Deal!" Myrtle beamed, confident she would return before he could accomplish what she considered needed to be done to make Dean comfortable and presentable. Little did the new arrival know how fast she was in the kitchen! Why, she already had coffee percolating on her stove! And lemons, she always had lemons. Who cleaned their house without lemon juice? Or drank diet soda?

Myrtle toddled off and Sam turned back to the bed and his brother, rubbing his hands together in preparation for the speediest doctoring he'd ever done! He hadn't missed Myrtle's cat-like smile and knew he had underestimated her.

But little did she know, when it came to taking care of Dean, there was no one better than his experienced, determined brother.


	7. Chapter 7

"So, ah, here." Maggie set the ice packs on the dresser. "I'll leave you two….uh…..well, yell if you need anything." oh, how sad was it she knew how good those two were at doctoring one another?

She took herself off to the kitchen, knowing without asking that Sam would not be loading his brother into the passenger seat of the car and driving off anytime soon. Nope, not with both a bum foot and hand. Sam's boast of two good hands? Pfft!

So, okay then, where would Sam sleep? There was the den, set aside for when the grandkids came to visit, but it was more of a playroom then a bedroom. Still, it did have a day bed. Course, Sam would not exactly fit on it, but…oh hell, why was she even bothering to think about it?

"Oh sure Maggie, go ahead, waste your time fretting." she muttered. "God forbid a wall separate the two of them." the first time she'd met them had been at Jody's house and they'd had separate rooms…..wait. Oh, no. No. That had been _after_ they'd returned from wherever the hell Dean had retrieved Sam from, both injured. No, when they'd _first_ arrived, her grandson's bed had previously been evicted and bunk beds had been installed in what had been her grandson's room and that was where they normally slept. "Jody, Jody, Jody, how on earth did you get yourself mixed up with these two?"

She could hear muted voiced coming from her spare room and set out three mugs for her-everything-is-all-better-when-there's-tea-to-drink tea, considered the humidity and replaced the mugs with glasses for iced lemonade.

"And why do you let them stay in your life?" she opened the fridge, caressed its door with a chuckle as she recalled once seeking refuge behind one just like it, and removed a pitcher of lemonade. "Better question is; why do I?" she swung the door shut, and with a shake of her head, began to make toast.

Sam got up to inspect the room, peeked out the window and searched for the source that was the reason for the lack of cool air.

"Why's it so warm in here?" Sam asked. _Better yet, why are you so contented to stay where it's so warm?_ But he didn't voice that question out loud. "It's pretty stuffy in here."

"Window a/c units." Dean replied tiredly. "Electric kept going off last night. No ceiling fan in here. Got to leave the door open." he sniffed. "Am I having a stroke? Heat stroke, you think?"

"Say what?" Sam resumed his seat on the mattress next to his brother. Yes, the room had both an overstuffed rocker and a feminine desk chair that appeared sturdy enough to bear his weight but he needed closer contact with his brother than simply being in the same room.

Being laid up hours away, unable to drive or hitch on the road and hearing Dean had been in an accident and taken to the hospital had not done Sam's mental health any good. In fact, Maggie's assurances that Dean was fine, his injuries had been minor and he was home with her had not stopped more of his sanity from fleeing.

Nope, he'd been on a mission. One goal. Driven by determination. Begged help where he could. Executed extreme restraint by not holding a gun on Bear and forcing her to drive through the night. Or knocking him – not even Sam had figured out if Bear had been male or female – over the head with a fucking crowbar and stealing the rig.

Oh right, yeah, he couldn't drive. Yup, nope, his mind didn't function rationally when separated from Dean and panicked over his well-being. Never had, never would.

"I smell toast." Dean said with a limp wave of his hand. "Toast, you know? As in having-a-stroke-because-I-smell-toast, toast."

"Mmmm?" Sam took hold of his brother's wrist and tugged gently. "Smelling toast before having a stroke is a myth." he tugged a mite harder and Dean automatically sat up, unconsciously obeying the silent command of a brother to whom he was accustomed to allowing unlimited access to administer first aid. "And even if it wasn't, it wouldn't be heat stroke."

"I smell toast!" Dean repeated impatiently. "T-O-A-S-T." he spelled it out. "Toast."

"Yes." Sam agreed. "Arms out."

Too busy complaining about toast, Dean's arms went out.

"Smells good too." Dean continued around a wince, sucking his breath in. "Ow."

"Duck your head." Sam ordered and Dean, still on a mission to convince Sam why he was so concerned over smelling toast, ducked his head. "How'd you even get this shirt on?" he paused, the hem of the shirt rucked up to Dean's arm pits. "This isn't yours. Whose is this?" he gave up the fight he was bound to lose and used his teeth to start a rend in the hem.

"HEY!" Dean protested, swatting at Sam's hands. "Not my shirt, you twit. Mind your manners regarding other people's belongings."

"Twit?" Sam repeated, a fond grin playing about his lips as he fought to control it. "Wow, a lecture from-he-who-trods-all-over-everyone's-shit."

"Now hey." Dean instantly pulled a pout. "I do not."

"Why the sudden concern over a t-shirt? Duck." Sam tossed the torn garment aside. "Sit up." and when the hell had Dean slumped back anyway? "Arms up."

And Dean sat up, raising his arms over his head. He paled, biting his lip, but didn't think to refuse the order.

"Cause I broke her antique table and destroyed her rosebushes and made her a spectacle and the topic of gossip and oh, she had to wear borrowed shoes and lost her teeth and….." and he droned on, obeying Sam's commands while filling him in on all that had happened – what he could remember anyway – since he and Sam had split. "….overcoat…."

Maggie lingered outside the open door, listening to Sam patiently order his brother around, get his own way and handle Dean in a way she would never have thought possible.

Wow.

Dean, despite his reluctance to be 'taped up', was calm and relaxed and totally trusting in whatever Sam wanted to do. Oh, she had no doubt, if Dean wanted to 'put his foot down', he'd win any battle he fought, but nope, Sam got his way and Dean just let him have it: No whining, no complaining, no bitching.

"…and her neighbors. I dunno whether to run and hide, flee town or welcome….."

Maggie leaned against the wall. Sam chattered about when they could leave, where they would be going and how long they'd be staying there before _he'd_ be willing to let Dean resume 'normal activities'. Whatever the hell that meant.

"….oh, and Sammy, dude, she had a _metal_ bedpan…."

Now Sam was asking what medications Dean had been described and how many had he taken. Did ice help? Did he want more?

"…..yeah, but…..that suit? Did you see it?"

"Lean to your left." Sam said, tickling along Dean's belly to achieve the action he wanted. "Your other left."

"Not so tight." Dean hissed. "Jesus Sammy, don't hafta use every bandage you got."

"So, you met Maggie's neighbors?" Sam asked, once again distracting Dean from being bandaged.

Dean rattled on. Maggie hadn't realized he'd retained so much of what had happened in the last 24 hours. Boy, the details he knew. Wow. And he kept talking. Oh, and not once, did he ask how Sam was. Huh.

"…and oh, my nurse Sammy. Shudda seen her. She….."

"Dean, why are you here?" Sam asked, tearing white adhesive tape from a roll with his teeth. "Why Maggie's? I mean, really?"

"No danger to her." Dean insisted. "Hey, not so much tape!"

"No." Sam agreed. "But…."

"Toast and lemonade." Maggie barged in with a tray. "Better hurry up Sam, Myrtle will be back any second."

"I'm done." Sam ordered Dean once again to raise his arms and when, after the glare of death, Dean did so, Sam tried to capture Dean's waving hands – they fluttered all about as he told Maggie not to let Myrtle try and bathe him – and work them through the sleeves of a black t-shirt. Dean's head popped through the neck opening, already eyeing the food.

"Did you spring for the cost of some butter this time?" he asked, unable to withhold his sarcasm.

"Hey!" Sam reprimanded mildly, offering a half-hearted swat upside his brother's head as he gathered up his various supplies and returned them to that mysterious green duffel. "Watch your tone."

"But I'm hungry." Dean whined, but his heart wasn't in it. All of a sudden, it hurt to breathe and if he started gasping, he'd never get breakfast because Sam would set him to breathing exercises. "Where are the pancakes?"

"Here, munch on some toast." Sam stuck a slice in Dean's mouth, his own slice between his teeth and being eaten without benefit of hands. "Come on…up you go." he extended his hands to his brother and waggled his fingers. "Dean?"

First piece of buttered toast consumed, second between his teeth and disappearing the exact same way Sam's had, Dean accepted the offer of support from his brother and heaved off the bed. He was on his feet before it occurred to him to ask where he was going.

"You're going to brush your teeth, shave, wash your face and hands and comb your hair."

"Whoa." Dean protested. "My face hurts."

"Would you rather Myrtle get ahold of you?"

Dean paused, mind whirling…..somehow, enticing as that sounded, Myrtle was scary. He had visions of being smothered in the folds of that vibrantly colored Mumu and shuddered.

"Thought so." Sam slid an arm around Dean's waist and took a moment to savor the contact. "Try and walk upright. No bending over."

"Easy for you to say." Dean muttered, holding to the back of the rocker for support. "Ow! Wrapped a bit tight, I think."

"You're gonna live. Now, come on. Not a lot of time and when we're done, ice cold lemonade and more toast." Sam bribed his pale, shaky brother who was obviously struggling not to give in and gasp. "Ice. Lots and lots of ice."

"And eggs." Maggie added. Dean perked up a bit, stomach rumbling in anticipation of actual food. "With bacon." she added grudgingly.

That did it.

Dean pushed off from the rocker and walked with Sam into the bathroom. Maggie expected the door to be shut in her face but nope.

She made a _fast_ exit to the safety of the kitchen.

***000***

Sam paid no mind to Dean's crankiness and moodiness and refused to be shaken off, shoved out or otherwise removed from his brother's side. He did not step aside, step back or step out.

He brushed aside Dean's insistence that he could; both stand and walk on his own, turn on a faucet, locate both toothpaste and toothbrush, apply toothpaste to toothbrush, open bottle of mouthwash, find his mouth, spit accurately in the sink; find comb, know what comb was for; find soap, know what to use soap on; find washcloth, know where soap was to wash off; find Q-tips and razor. Oh, and not shave off a lip or an eyelid, because, you know, all men, according to Sam, apparently shaved their eyebrows.

He ignored Dean's attempts and, likely success, to reach and stretch and bend to accomplish his goals to wash up and shave without his help. No, instead, he kept an arm around Dean's waist or shoulders, at times settling for a hand on Dean's elbow. At all times, anticipating Dean's thoughts and next move, but at no time did he relinquish physical contact with his brother.

He ignored the ache in his ankle and the throb in his hand, only allowing Dean to have his way when, with a grunt from bending down and the bandages halting his action, he raised the lid and seat on the toilet and pointed to the door. Then, and only then did Sam leave.

Dean sighed, flushing and rewashing his hands. Habit, he guessed, because he didn't usually piss on his hands. His face – cheeks, chin, forehead, nose, upper lip, lips – stung. Attempting to shave had only irritated his already irritated skin and he sat down on the now closed toilet lid with the tube of ointment Sam had left on the vanity.

But as much as he wanted the soothing cream applied, he was suddenly too tired and in too much pain to raise a hand to his face to accomplish the task. Why again, had he allowed Sam to tape him up? He popped the lid open and squeezed a generous amount onto his forefinger but the act of raising his arm towards his head was a great a feat as an attempt to climb Mt Everest without the proper gear. So, he sat…just sat.

"We're gonna stay for a few days." Sam was kneeling in front of him, wiping the goop from Dean's lax finger onto his own. "Chin up." he gently dabbed and rubbed, touch light despite the callouses on his finger and thumb. "You just get some rest, okay? I'm here. You need anything…..I'm here."

Dean nodded. His head bobbed and Sam halted the motion with a fingertip under his chin.

"I've left Cas messages. Don't know where he is, but since you're not in danger of dying or serious injury, we'll meet up with him at the bunker in a week or so."

Dean nodded, letting his head bob forward again and this time, Sam let him rest against his shoulder. If Dean wordlessly sought what Sam was always willing to give yet Dean never willingly accepted, Sam sure as hell wasn't going to deny him what he wanted.

Dean clean, medicated, fed and back in bed with ice, Myrtle successfully deterred, Sam retrieved the book from the trunk of the car and took up residence in the den with his own towels of ice.

***000***

Barry gaped.

Mrs. Prim and Proper, advocate of healthy eating, reserved, conscientious, image aware, Margaret Mills sat on her sofa; her feet clad in fuzzy pink bear claw - compete with claws - slippers, (unsafe sole) were propped up on what should have been her coffee table (not for feet) but was now two wood crates supporting a...a...plank of rough strewn wood, one ankle crossed over the other (bad for circulation), bowl of salty potato chips in her lap, eating ice cream from the carton (wrong, for no one else could share the treat, though she did live alone, so…), a package of cookies by her hip, watching a...a... _ soap opera!_

At 10:30 in the morning!

"Oh, hello Barry." she waved the spoon. "Cheerio! Jolly good day to you!" she beamed up at him, then offered him the carton of ice cream. "Care to share?" she licked the spoon and popped a chip into her mouth. "Ben and Jerry's, Hazed & Confused." _yup, that sure summed up her life all right!_

"Maggie? Are you quite alright?"

"Shsshhhhh." she hissed, finger to her lips. "You wake him up and so help me Barry, I will…..I…..I will…..well, I'll think of something dire and diabolical to do to you!"

The him in question, of course, was Dean. She'd found him head and shoulders deep, ass up, outside under what was left of her rosebushes looking at her gas meter. She'd had to take her broom to him to get him to come out from the foliage and come back inside! And then, AND THEN, she'd turned her back for one second and he'd disappeared out the back door, muttering about the foundation of her house!

Sam, the rat, had fallen asleep on _her_ bed and without him to keep his brother in line, Dean had gone and gotten up to no good!

Barry frowned. "I say Maggie, I don't think housing your guest, erhm – guests, is good for you."

She raised an eyebrow, waggled the other, crushed a cookie in her hand, dumped the pieces and crumbs into the carton of ice cream and dug in with her spoon.

"Maggie." Barry said gently, patiently, hands held out in supplication. "Here now, give me the ice cream." he coaxed. "That's a good girl. Give it to Barry."

His outstretched hand was smacked with a licked clean spoon and he recoiled from the snarl emitted from the petite senior sprawled on her sofa, hugging his abused hand to his chest.

"Margaret!" he gasped. "Are you well? You're ill. It's this heat."

"Do YOU have any idea what I have been through?" she railed at him, spoon waving about over her head madly. "DO YOU? _DO YOU_?"

Barry gaped.

"Five sons Barry. FIVE! I raised five boys!" she held her hand up, palm out, fingers spread. "And a husband! I didn't need medication or therapy, a mother's support group or girls nights out! I didn't send my kids to sitters or pre-school or day care. I raised them! ME!" her thumb thumped her chest. "Me Barry! And not once did I scrub their skin raw with a brush or stitch them up in my kitchen! Do you know what it _feels_ like to _sew_ skin? I think not!" she crumbled another cookie and added it to the carton. "Not once did any of my boys hold a gun on me or shoot at me or cause me to flee from the police! Not once did they bring illegal drugs into my home!" she stirred and mashed and added a whole cookie that she attacked with her spoon. She was making a mess she wouldn't eat but who cared? "No one ever came home with knife wounds or rope burns or bleeding brains and swollen skulls or puked in my sink!"

"Maggie." Sam swooped in and with the reach of one extended arm, swept the ice cream carton right out of her hands. "Can I get you a cold glass of ice tea?" he offered. "Or maybe some juice? I saw a pitcher of orange juice."

Maggie had had enough. She shot to her feet and with both hands free, swiped her palms to together to rid them of cookie crumb residue.

"Now you see here!" she whispered furiously. "Do you see my house? Do you? Doors all open. I'll have the highest electric bill ever!"

"I'll leave some cash to help you pay it off." Sam offered.

"And did you see my coffee table?" _I know you didn't because you didn't look in the trash._

"I made you a temporary one." Sam countered easily.

"Did you see my rosebushes?" _no one could possibly identify that mangled mess as rosebushes._

"I've read up on saving and replanting roses and will plant you new ones before we leave." Sam promised.

"I used to bake cakes." Maggie said suddenly. "Babysit a grandchild or two. Make cookies. Now…..now…." she sniffed, arms waving in circles. "Now…there's blood and guns and injuries and hospitals and police and….."

"Hey, come on." Sam said gently, producing a tissue and handing it to her. "Don't quit on me now."

"I love Jody you know." she said solemnly. "I have five daughters-in-law and Jody is my favorite. I would do anything for her."

"I know." Sam steered her towards the sofa and helped her sit down. "And we appreciate it. We do." he patted her knee and moved the bag of chips out of reach. "We don't have much, Dean and me. We travel a lot, work and all, and though home is in Kansas, we're hardly ever there. So this, a little touch of domestic life means more than you know."

"Normal." she said forlornly. "I used to be normal. My life was normal."

"Maggie, I'm sorry." Sam said sincerely. "We….never meant to disrupt your life. But Dean. He….well…..he, uh, it's complicated. We'll leave tomorrow and you'll never see us again."

Maggie blinked. "Bah." quick as a flash, she grabbed his ear and tweaked, twisting until he yelped. "When did I say, 'get out and never come back'?" she released him and pushed him away.

"At least let us, um, say thank you. We'll…..uh…..hum….send a gift." he perked up, pleased with his generous thought. "What would you like? Coffee maker?"

Great, just great! "For what?" _yup, she needed another fruit basket or knick-knack. How many figurines and mugs and photo frames were she expected to find room for?_

"As a thank you." Sam repeated patiently. "For all the times you took care of Dean."

"Mmmmm." _you mean, I had a choice?_

"…that time you stitched him up….." Sam was saying.

"Mmmmm." _twice!_ _I did it twice!_

"….didn't have to, but you did…."

"Yuh-huh." _oh, so I should have let him bleed all over the kitchen? The bedroom?_

"…with his concussion…..and he was disoriented and a little out-of-sorts….."

"Mmmmmm." o _ut-of-sorts? He held a gun on me! Holy Moly, he shot at me!_

"….taking him a hotel until Cas and I could get there…"

"Mmmmmmm." _uh, 'cause we had to flee the police!_

"…taking care of him with a head injury that he really should have been in the hospital with and….."

 _Dammit! They did owe her a gift!_

 **"** A new coffee table will do." she conceded. "So, Barry, what brings you over?"

***000***

"I'll take him for a walk." Maggie told Sam. "You rest that foot."

"You sure?" Sam asked, clicking away on his laptop, large ancient 'tome' open on the table beside it. "He could use some exercise but if it's too hot outside for you, call Myrtle over and let him tire himself out trying to avoid her."

"HEY! I'm not a dog who needs to be taken for a walk!" Dean growled grumpily. "And I don't run away from old ladies."

"He can't go by himself." Maggie scolded. "Let me get some water. He tends to get thirsty easily."

"The fuck?" Dean scowled. "Sam!"

"Don't use that language in my home." Maggie chided. "Did you put suntan lotion on? The sun will bring your freckles out."

"SAM!" Dean turned in protest. "No one is taking me for a walk! I…..." his eyes narrowed suspiciously at the phone Sam held in his hand. "What is that?"

"This? Maggie's home phone." Sam said simply. "Myrtle is…" he made a show of peering closely. "Speed dial 2."

"The fuck is wrong with you….? OW!" he rubbed his abused ear. "Stop doing that!" he snapped at Maggie.

"Stop cursing in my house." Maggie shot back. "Now come. Leave your poor brother in peace to finish his work."

So despite his protests, Dean went for a walk.

"Ooh look. Free Lemonade!" Dean chortled, stepping off the sidewalk and crossing the street with no regard to oncoming traffic. "Now we're talking!"

"What are you…..?!" Maggie trotted after him. "Come back here!" she waved sheepishly at the car that had been forced to a stop when Dean had crossed in front of it. "I live in this town you know. Now behave!"

"What'd I do?" he asked, baffled. "I crossed the street! How is that misbehaving?"

"You didn't want lemonade at my house." she accused, mildly miffed. Hers was squeezed from fresh lemons!

"Uh, it's free! Everybody loves free shit!"

"It is not free." she said, exasperated. Oh, he made her exhausted. "What ails you?"

"Thirst." Dean replied, perplexed over Maggie's attitude. "What's got your panties all twisted now?"

That should shock her. Really, it should. But it didn't. Oh, coming from anyone else it would, but not Dean. Nope.

"It's a lemonade stand." Maggie's teeth were gritted, causing her jaw to ache. "It is not free."

"Yeah-huh." Dean pointed to a childish drawn sign. "Says so right there. Free lemonade."

She whacked him upside the head.

"OW!" he complained. "Stop doing that!"

"It says 'donations welcome'." she ignored his whine of discontent. "Donations." really, she think she preferred him concussed and drugged. Upright and walking, not so much.

"But…..but…..that's just stupid. Who wants to donate for free lemonade?"

"And you're how old? Someone raise you in a cave? Kids can't sell lemonade without proper town permits. But they can give it away and ask for donations. Now give the jar a dollar."

"A buck? For a 3 ounce cup of watery, warm lemonade?" he protested, aghast. "It doesn't even have ice." her hands went to her hips, her toe began to tap and wanting to protect his ears from further abuse, Dean dug several coins from the front pocket of his jeans. "Robbery." he muttered, dropping the handful of coins into the glass jar. "Won't even wet the whistle." he griped. "Might wet my tongue, doubt it though."

"Thank you sir." the 8 year-old in pigtails chirped. "Would you like a flower?"

"Sure! It'll cheer Samantha up." Dean took his tot-sized cup with one hand and reached for the flower with the other.

Maggie smacked his hand down. "Don't you dare!"

"Now what?" Dean asked affronted. "It's a fu…" another smack over his ear silenced his tongue. "A stupid flower!" he rubbed his ear, giving her a hurt look.

"It's a _rose_! And by golly, if you prick your thumb and cry about it, pack my bags and take me home with you, because I'm moving in and will make it my goal to make your life a living hell!"

Dean blinked, finally closing his mouth. "Aah, ears." he motioned to the two little girls. "Language."

Maggie grabbed an ear and began tugging him along the sidewalk towards home, ignoring his ow's and ouch's, going out of her way to avoid any rosebush that was close to the sidewalk.

"Wow. He was cute." Pig-tails said, watching them walk away."

"He's old!" her friend argued. "Older than your dad."

"My dad doesn't look _anything_ like that!"

"And he's a wimp!" the other continued. "Who's scared of a little thorn on a rose?"

***000***

Maggie plunked her mug of tea onto the counter with a thud. It was 7 o'clock in the bloody morning. Who would be knocking on her door this early? The boys were gone, having loaded up the big black car and pulling out, Dean driving, with a smile and wave. They still owed her new rosebushes and a decent coffee table but she didn't doubt that some day in the near future, they'd deliver on their promise.

"What?" she opened the door, using a lace-edged hankie to mop her brow. "Oh hello, good morning."

"Morning ma'am."

Maggie stared at the utility worker standing on her front porch, then at the large utility work truck parked on her driveway with an additional three men opening doors and unhooking ladders.

"Oh, good heavens." she sputtered. "Don't tell me you're here to tell me about another outage. Not today. Not again. Not in this heat. We just had another one last night."

"We're here to install…." he was reading from a clipboard. "…. a whole house, natural gas fed generator."

"I beg your pardon? A what?" she gazed longingly at the unit being unloaded. My, what a nice-sized generator. Not that she knew a darn thing about them. "You must have the wrong house"

"Is this 323 Meryleville street? Mrs. Margaret Mills' residence?"

"Yes."

"Then we're at the right house." he handed her an envelope. "Right here are our instructions."

She accepted the envelope and turned it over but didn't recognize the handwriting other than to identify it as male.

"I did not order or authorize a generator." she argued, pulling a folded note from among the work order papers and receipts and warranties. "I cannot afford…" she paused. "Oh, my!" she sniffed, a tear threatening as she read the hastily scribbled note. 'Thanks for not boarding me with Mad Myrtle'.

"...paid for ma'am." the man had turned to walk back to his truck. "We're just here to install and get her running."

She smiled, hugging the note and receipts and whatnot to her bosom. Oh, those rascally boys! Now, this was a gift for a senior residing in South Dakota where harsh winters with ice storms that caused loss of electricity for several days weren't unheard of! Not to mention, freak heat waves!

And to think she would have been happy with a 'mere' new coffee table.

*** END ***


End file.
